


Wunderkind (Deleted Scenes)

by JustAnotherWriter (N1ghtshade)



Series: Wunderkind [5]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Deleted Scenes, Drug Withdrawal, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, References to Drugs, Short Fics, Vigilante AU, Whump, wunderkind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 72,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N1ghtshade/pseuds/JustAnotherWriter
Summary: A series of short fics about moments in my Wunderkind universe that are mentioned in the fic but didn't make it into the final cut. Expect everything from found family fluff to angst and whump, possibly all mixed together...
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016) & Riley Davis, Wilt Bozer & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: Wunderkind [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1283609
Comments: 422
Kudos: 237





	1. Haircuts+Father Figures

**Author's Note:**

> So, since I have a new job and more responsibilities, I'll be updating the actual Wunderkind fic less frequently. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop playing around in this universe, especially because I have a few outtake scenes I really did promise to write...

**(Set between Seasons 1 and 2, while Mac and Jack are traveling the world in search of clues to find James)**

BOSNIA: APPARENTLY JAMES MACGYVER HAS FRIENDS HERE

“Mac?” Jack whispers, stepping around the corner of the alley. They got separated chasing their potential informant after Mac insisted he could stop the guy if Jack would just stay with him. _Sure, right, make Jack do all the running around here._

The guy’s not stupid, he cut through a late-night street musicians’ performance and Jack sort of lost track of him. So he doubled back to this alley to see if he can find the kid. He just doesn’t want to walk into whatever trap Mac cooked up to catch this guy, it probably wouldn’t be fun.

He can hear something from the end of the alley, rattling and thudding like Mac is digging through a dumpster. _Damn, kid, it’s taking you long enough._ He kind of figured Mac would have a trap finished by now.

Then he hears a gasp and a shaky breath. And a voice he doesn’t recognize.

“Now, then, what’s a pretty thing like you doing here?” The voice is drunken and slurred, but clearly has an American accent. This isn’t their informant, but he’s probably just as dangerous.

“Here, this is all I’ve got.” Mac’s voice is trembling slightly.

Jack edges around the corner of a dumpster and glances at the two shadows in the alley. He sees a glint of silver, a knife pressed to his kid’s throat. _Well, that complicates things._ He can see the bigger man leaning in over Mac, and Mac is looking up at him, shaking. Or more accurately, being forced to look up, the man has a fistful of the kid’s sort of too-long hair in his hand.

“What makes you think I want your money?” The man asks.

 _Okay, that’s it._ Jack’s fist closes on his gun, and he dashes up behind the man, swinging and catching the guy over the base of the skull. The man crumples, and Jack doesn’t care if he’s dead or just stunned, it doesn’t matter. Mac starts to topple forward, the man’s grip in his hair pulling him down as well, and Jack catches him, wrapping his arms around the kid. Mac starts to struggle, punching and shoving.

“Whoa, whoa, hoss, it’s just me,” Jack says.

“Jack?” His voice is shaky, choked with tears.

“Yeah. Yeah, bud, it’s me. Let’s get outta here, okay?”

“But Jašić…”

“He’s long gone, bud, I lost him in a crowd. We’ll catch him later.”

* * *

SLEAZY HOTEL: THEY’RE THE SAME ALL OVER THE WORLD

Jack wakes up the second he hears the sobbing. He checks his watch and sighs. _Only been half an hour since the last time._ Mac’s nightmares aren’t getting any better, in fact, they’re only getting more traumatic as the night goes on. It’s a quarter to three and this is already the fourth time Jack has woken up to the kid sobbing and struggling and pushing away invisible hands.

He rolls out of his bed and walks over to where Mac is sitting on the edge of his. The kid has the thin hotel comforter wrapped around himself like a cocoon.

“Hey Mac?” Jack says quietly. “You okay?”

Mac just nods. The light beside his bed is still on, and Jack can see tears glinting in his eyes. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Not until you do.”

Jack rubs a hand up and down the kid’s blanket-covered arm, trying to ground him and comfort him without touching him where he might feel threatened. Mac swallows hard.

“I don’t have to go back anymore, I shouldn’t be scared,” He says quietly.

Jack just nods. He knows what Mac means. They walked out of that courtroom a month ago with Mac finally, finally, vindicated. _He didn’t murder anyone, and they finally proved it._ Mac doesn’t have to live under the fear of violating his parole and being sent back to prison any longer.

But just because he’s able to put steel bars and barbed wire in his past, doesn’t mean the memories are content to stay there too. Jack isn’t sure he can ever forgive himself for what happened when the kid went undercover in Bishop, and he knows he can never forget. _And the worst part is, that’s far from the worst he had it._ The kid spent two years in his own personal hell, and that’s not something that’s easy to shake.

“I keep feeling their hands in my hair,” Mac whispers. He swallows hard. “And I keep seeing their faces.” One thin hand makes its way up to the edges of his messy hair, and then he looks at Jack. “Cut it off, please. Now.”

Jack blinks. “Are you serious? Like, right now?” All he has that’s even close to the right tool for the job is the scissors and blade on Mac’s knife. He cringes. “Kid, this isn’t gonna be too good. It’s probably gonna pull on your hair and scare you more.” Jack cut his own hair with his knife a grand total of once. _I was just so glad to be done with that op. I think I hated Cal Cunningham’s hair as much as I hated the whole sleazebag cover ID._ He remembers how much that knife catching on individual pieces of hair hurt. And when the kid’s trauma is clearly connected to having someone pulling on his hair…

“Please, just do it,” Mac whispers. “I want it gone.” He’s shivering violently. “I don’t feel safe.”

“Okay. I’ll try to go slow and be careful.” Jack sighs. “Come on, let’s do this in the bathroom.”

Jack’s helped both Riley and Sarah dye their hair in hotel bathrooms, and he’s patched up more than a few wounds in them too. He knows exactly how to do this with as few problems as possible.

He makes Mac sit on the edge of the tiny combined tub/shower, it’s easier to wash away any mess there than in the cliché sink. _Actually, Sarah was the one who told me dyeing hair in a sink is for amateurs._ Mac is still wrapped in the comforter, shivering even though it’s summer and the AC in this place is a joke. Jack doesn’t argue with him. Besides, it’ll keep the hair from going down his shirt and making him itch.

Jack opens up the scissors on the knife, glad it’s the new one he bought the kid and most of the tools are still sharp. He runs his fingers gently through the kid’s hair, trying to comb it out as straight as he can so he doesn’t make too much of a mess of this. He cut Riley’s hair once, for an op where she had to pass as a foreign diplomat’s daughter and couldn’t afford to keep her long, messy curls. She never forgave him for chopping it off the way she did, and she won’t let him touch her hair again.

“Okay, now, hold still. If you jump around, you’re the only one to blame for how it looks when I’m done.”

Mac gives him the ghost of a smile. “Just avoid giving me a mohawk like yours, and we’re good.”

“Insulting my sense of hair fashion? I am wounded!” Jack presses a hand dramatically to his heart, hoping making Mac laugh and smile will distract him from any potential accidental hair pulling. “Besides, you could pull it off.”

“Let’s not test it,” Mac replies. He takes a deep breath and settles a little more comfortably on the edge of the tub.

As careful as Jack is, he was telling the truth, Swiss army knife scissors were not made for major haircuts. Trimming unruly stray hairs is one thing, but taking off whole chunks of Mac’s stupidly thick blond mane is a challenge. Jack gets strands caught in the hinge of the blades more times than he can count, and even though Mac is mostly silent, there are a few times he can’t hold back a tiny gasp of pain.

Finally, it’s done. Jack sweeps up most of the hair, pocketing a piece that was curlier than the rest before he tosses the hair into the trash. He leaves the room so Mac can take a shower by himself, he doesn’t want to do anything to remind the kid of his horrible experiences in prison. It’s four a.m. when he looks at the little clock on his bedside table, and he sighs, sitting down on the edge of his bed and waiting for Mac to come out.

The kid emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later, wrapped up in the comforter again, hair wet and messy and sticking out at all angles. Jack has the disconcerting feeling that it won’t look much better when it dries. _Thought I did a better job than that._

Mac sits down on the bed next to him. “Thank you,” he says softly, leaning a little against Jack’s shoulder.

“Any time, kiddo.” Jack puts one arm around him gently, and Mac doesn’t shy away. He leans against Jack’s side, and just as the clock clicks to four-thirty, Jack hears the first soft snore. He smiles. _Sleep tight, kiddo. Jack Dalton’s got you._


	2. Road Trips + Metallica Tickets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO this one is a little short, and I'm posting it a little early, but I have good reason...tomorrow I'm going to be picking up my new puppy!! She's an eight week old lab mix, and I'm naming her Riley...

**(Set between the main story and epilogue of 1.06 - Wrench)**

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN LOS ANGELES AND AUSTIN, TX

“This, this is the _life_.” Jack grins, with the top down and the desert wind whipping through the car, he feels like he’s home.

“Yeah, it is.” Riley grins, her own curls a giant mess from the wind. “When was the last time we had a family vacation?”

“Too long, kid.” And it _is_ a family vacation. A few weeks ago, Jack wouldn’t have considered either Cage or MacGyver his family. But they’ve both grown on him. And Carl’s Jr… Mac… saved his life. Which is the only reason Jack’s here right now to enjoy this road trip. 

_That kid is so much more than I gave him credit for._ Jack glances over his shoulder. “Hey Mac, you doing okay back there?” The name feels strange coming off his tongue, not like Carl’s Jr. does. But he’s gonna get used to it. For Mac.

“Yeah.”

“You hungry?”

“Not yet.” Mac says. “Sam keeps offering me Tim Tams.”

“Ok, cool. Cause we got three more hours before we get to that rib place that I put on my agenda for the trip.”

“I’m hungry,” Riley says.

“You don’t have three candy bars, a bag of trail mix, and a packet of jerky in your backpack?”

“I used the candy bars up on that one op with Mac, he took them for the acid leak at that lab in Nevada. And I ate the rest already.”

“That’s why there’s two more jerky packets and a family size trail mix in the glove box.”

Riley grins. “You’re the best.” She opens the glove box and grabs the bag of trail mix. “You want the raisins and almonds?”

“You know it.” Jack grins.

He glances in the rearview again. Carl’s Jr. is sitting huddled up in his seat, like he’s afraid to take up too much space in the car. Jack sighs. _Kid looks like a kicked puppy half the time._ Jack doesn’t know how he never took the time to notice that.

 _I didn’t notice cause I couldn’t see past the orange jumpsuit and the handcuffs._ At the time, he’d thought that prison was the best place for someone like what he believed MacGyver was. But now, he can’t stand the thought of the kid having been in there. _I saw what he acted like when I pinned him down in training. He was terrified._

“Mac, you’re sure you’re okay?” And he can’t tell if he’s asking whether they need to make a pit stop, or whether he’s asking a major existential question he kind of already knows the answer to. _Anyone who panics the way he does when someone pins them to the floor is definitely not at all okay._ He’s trying not to think too hard about what probably…no, definitely…happened to Carl’s Jr. in prison. _He wouldn’t want me to see that when I look at him._

It takes far too long for the kid to reply, and when he does, it’s nothing more than a monotone, “I’m fine.” It sounds like a default reaction.

“Mac. Mac, I’m an interrogation expert. I know how to tell when people are lying.” Jack shakes his head. “And I know Sam doesn’t give people Tim Tams unless she’s worried about them.” She kept giving them to Riley when they started rooming together after Como. When Riley was half killing herself trying to get field ready again so they could go after the men she thought killed her ex. And then Nick turned out to be a backstabbing traitor. And Jack’s seen even more Tim Tams change hands recently.

“I just…” Mac frowns. “I feel like I’m intruding. You and Riley, you’ve worked together for so long…”

“And now I work with you. This is my family, kid. My team. We Daltons have a way of makin’ family wherever we go. Now, while we’re in Texas, I’m gonna swing by the ol’ family ranch and take you to meet my Momma.”

“She’s gonna adopt you in a second,” Riley says. “She adopted me as soon as I walked through the door.”

Mac doesn’t look any less worried. Jack is pretty sure the kid doesn’t have the best mental image of families, after his own fell apart. _I’ve read his dossier. And for all that he’s trying to reconnect with his dad, whoever the old man is sure doesn’t seem to want anything to do with him._ Jack knows he was lucky, growing up with people who loved him and wanted him to succeed, who supported him and never gave up. He kinda wants to pay it forward a little. He’s trying with Riley, but he thinks he’s gonna have to add Carl’s Jr. to that list as well.

Jack smiles, hoping that reassures the kid a little. “My mom’s a lot nicer than me. She won’t make fun of your name, I promise.” It earns him a weak chuckle.

Cage reaches over to Mac. “I feel as out of place right now as you do. Or maybe a little more. I’m from Australia, remember?” Her smile is part humor, part an attempt at a kind reassurance.

“I think what she’s trying to say, kid, is…it doesn’t matter where we came from, or who we used to be.” Jack’s seen Cage’s file too. Or what there is of it he’s allowed to look at. He knows she has a seriously dark past, much more dangerous than a very likely false accusation of domestic terrorism and murder. “As long as we’re together, this is my family.”

Mac smiles. “Okay, Jack.”

“Now, since we have about two and a half more hours before we get dinner, how ‘bout we get some practice in on those Metallica lyrics, huh?” Jack says, sliding a CD into the player Riley’s hooked up in the car. “Cause when we get to that concert, I don’t wanna see any of y’all just mouthin’ along with the words.”

Riley grins and launches right in on the first song on the track, and Jack hears both Carl’s Jr. and Cage groan from the back seat but then start singing along as well. _Yeah, this is definitely the good life._


	3. Mickey+Team

###  Mickey+Team

**Mac**

_ (Post 1.18-Flashlight) _

It’s not like Mac’s never had a dog before. There was Archimedes when he was a kid, and then for a little while Bozer’s sister Deja had a rescue dog, that had been abused when it was younger and flinched and hid from everyone. Mac had always felt sorry for that dog, even though she never ended up being friendly and eventually her hip problems got so bad they had to put her down.  _ Thought about that dog a lot the first few months I spent in prison. Wondered how long it takes to lose the ability to ever trust. _

But he’s never had a puppy. That was his to raise, to train, to really be his own dog. Until Jack placed a squirming, wriggling ball of fur in his arms and told him it was his birthday present. 

True, Mickey’s already sort of been trained. He was on track to become a fully certified PTSD service dog, but he wasn’t exactly passing the training. Jack said something about him being too rambunctious, not quite reliable enough. But he’d also said that the second he saw that puppy, he knew he was meant to be Mac’s. 

Mac thinks they’re going to suit each other just fine. Jack partially trained his own service dog McClane, and he says Mac’s more than capable of picking up where the last trainers left off. Mac will admit he’s a little bit afraid he’s not up to the challenge. But he’s going to try. 

He knows what he needs Mickey to do, Jack’s told him the various things the dog can be trained for. Mac doesn’t think he’ll need to take Mickey with him to Phoenix,  _ I’m much more likely to have a panic attack in the field, and he  _ really _ can’t be with me there, _ but he does want to train Mickey to help him avoid having panic attacks by nudging or leaning up against him, and he’s also hoping he can get the dog to help wake him up from nightmares, since he’s so averse to human touch after them.  _ Jack can wake me up okay, but he can’t be here all the time.  _

But no matter how far they get on the training, Mac already knows this is going to help. A lot. And not just because Mickey will be a calming presence (he’s about the opposite of calm right now, but Mac can only laugh at for once not being the only one damaging things in the house). Having something to take care of gives Mac motivation to keep going. Having his team who care about him is half the battle on the bad days, but knowing he now has someone relying on him in such a complete way helps him feel like he might actually be worth something to someone, even if it’s just a dog.  _ You matter. You’re keeping something alive by being here. You’re important. _

And that’s what he sees every time he looks into Mickey’s trusting brown eyes. 

**Patty**

_ (Post 1.21-Cigar Cutter) _

“He’s a service dog. That means he can come in the building, right?”

Bozer’s eyes are almost as pleading as those of the dog sitting beside him. Patty isn’t entirely sure when the puppy, who’s apparently been christened “Mickey” became part of the team, but knowing Jack, it’s his doing. And the dog looks a lot like the one Jack had when Patty met him. 

“He’s not  _ your  _ service dog.” She frowns. “So no bringing him into the labs unless Jill okays it. Got it?” She sighs. “But he can be in the break room and in here. And he can go with Mac wherever he has to.” Mac hasn’t brought the dog with him to Phoenix. It seems like he’s almost ashamed to admit he has a service animal.  _ I can see how it would be hard for a child who was taught to be perfect and to need nothing and no one else to have such a visible reminder that he does need help sometimes.  _

She was shocked at how open Jack was about having a dog to help him cope with PTSD. She’d expected a former Delta Force soldier, from Texas no less, to keep quiet about that aspect of his life. But Jack had been nothing but proud of his dog. The man is an enigma, tough and snarky on the outside, but softhearted and willing to be vulnerable around people he trusts. She considers herself honored to be in that group. 

He’s good for Mac, a role model who can teach him that emotions and needs aren’t something to be shut off and buried, that it’s okay to be wrong sometimes, to make mistakes, to need people to help you. And she’s glad that Jack found a way to do something unobtrusive to make Mac feel a little safer and more loved.  _ Getting him the dog was a way to provide some comfort without asking Mac to be vulnerable with other people just yet. _

Mac’s come a long way since Patty left to track down Walsh. She can see more confidence in his posture and his actions, and hear a little more certainty in himself in his voice. Some of that was likely due to getting his conviction overturned, but she thinks a lot of it is thanks to his team. Jack and Riley and Cage and even Matty have all rallied around him, proved to him they can be trusted. And it’s helping him heal.

Bozer is grinning. “You hear that, Mickey? She said you can stay!” He hugs the dog, then stands up. “Thanks Dir...I mean, Oversight.” 

It’s strange to hear that title used for her. She’d considered that it could happen, the entire time she was chasing Walsh across countries, but the mess he’d left in his wake meant that she could be passed over for the promotion because she’d been caught up in Walsh’s maneuverings, however unconsciously. 

Truth be told, she’s still deciding if this is good or bad. Being Director was hard enough. Being Oversight is even more challenging. 

“Bozer? If you need to go down to the labs, bring him up here to my office. I’ll look after him for you.” She has a feeling she might be needing a little of Mickey’s calming presence herself, these days. 

**Matty**

_ (Post 2.01-DIY or Die) _

Jack picks up the stuffed raccoon toy and waves it in the air, letting Mickey grab for it and start tugging. “I swear, I thought you destroyed this thing a week ago, puppy dog.” 

“That was a squirrel shaped one,” Mac says. “I...don’t actually know where this came from. It just showed up the day after he wrecked the squirrel.”

“Yeah, and that one showed up after he wrecked that red thing,” Jack says. “Bozer, are you the one who’s replacing these things?”

“Nope,” Bozer says. “I always get bones. Less stuffing for me to have to vacuum up afterward.” 

Matty knows none of them will assume it’s Riley’s doing. She’s still cagey around the dog, she barely plays with him at all. It can take her time to warm up to new presences in her life, animal and human. 

It’s clearly not Cage either. She brings weird things like stuffed koalas or chew toys shaped like kangaroos. Jack swears she just likes being annoyingly visibly Australian even in super cheesy ways. 

Which leaves Patty, who doesn’t come to the house often enough for her to be the culprit, and Matty. 

She can almost see Jack putting all the pieces together. She’s taken to carrying in a large purse with her sometimes when she comes over to bonfires, something she almost never does unless she’s dressed for a formal occasion or wants to hide an extra weapon on her.  _ Jack used to joke about my wallet being smaller than his, back in the day. _ There’s no way he’s missed noticing the purse. She’s sure Cage has as well, but she’ll never say anything. 

Matty’s not one to just come right out and say she really likes Mac’s dog. But it’s hard to hide the smile she gets when they’re playing fetch, or the time she taught him how to do an army crawl under the benches on the deck. And by process of elimination, she’s going to be the one Jack assumes to be the mystery toy bringer. 

“Hey, Matty. You wouldn’t by any chance know where someone might find one of these critters, now would you?” Jack asks, holding up the already ragged toy. “I think Mickey really likes these.”

“I haven’t had a dog since 1988, Jack.” Matty gives him a level look. Her childhood dog, a little fluffy black and white mutt, was the only dog she’d ever let herself love. She could never bring herself to get another one after they put Pepper down. She hadn’t been sure any other dog could share that space in her heart. Matty isn’t often sentimental. But when she is, it’s deep and strong and lasting.  _ And losing anyone I’ve come to care about hurts. So I try not to let myself care too often. _ A battle she lost a long time ago with every member of this team. Including Mickey. 

“I know for a fact that this toy didn’t show up until you walked in.”

“Dalton, we’re all aware you’re getting older. I didn’t realize you were going blind as well,” Matty says. “It was on the floor in the kitchen when I walked in the door.”

She knows Jack won’t argue that. He probably also won’t bring up the fact that Bozer tends to leave the kitchen windows open when he’s cooking. Or that for someone with Matty’s training, forcing the screen is a piece of cake. 

“So you really don’t know a good place to get another one of these?” is all he says out loud. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a store on Thompson,” Matty says with an enigmatic smile. “And the  _ only _ reason I know that, Dalton, is that I drive past it every day on the way to Phoenix.”

_ He’ll know I don’t. Not unless I’m taking a half-hour detour every morning.  _ Jack knows where Matty’s house is. And Thompson is not on the way to Phoenix from there. 

He says nothing and throws the toy again. “Go get it, Mickey!”

**Jack**

_ (Post 2.04-X-Ray+Penny) _

“Get it. Pull it. Yeah, that’s it. Come on, yes!” Jack says with a chuckle, finally letting go of the knotted rope. Mickey bounds off playfully with his prize, carrying it to a corner behind a chair. 

Mac shakes his head. “You know that tugging games can raise aggression levels, right?”

“You’re reading too many of those training manuals, I swear, dude,” Jack says. “And yeah, I know if you teach ‘em to pull, they might not give stuff to you when you want them to. But hey, listen, what if like someday one of us is hurt or stuck somewhere and we want him to drag us out? We’re so taking him on our hiking trips from now on.” 

“Jack, your ability to come up with worst-case scenarios is...kind of incredible,” Mac says with a chuckle.

“I pride myself on the ability to plan for catastrophes.” Jack chuckles. “Hey Mickey, come here.”

The puppy bounds up to him with a soft whuffing sound. Jack digs his fingers into the thickening ruff of fur around his neck, he’s noticed that sometimes that area has some crusty spots that he figures are tears, and ruffled patches from where Mac must have been doing the same thing Jack is now. 

_ He’s a lot more damaged than he lets us ever see. _ It’s a good thing he’s got Mickey, and Jack wonders ruefully how many times before he had a living, breathing thing to comfort him, the kid’s sobbed into a pillow he’s been clutching, or something similar. He bites his lip and forces away the thought. 

Right now, Mac’s smiling as he holds up a treat. “Mickey, sit.” The puppy does, and is rewarded with a chunk of something Jack can hear him crunching. 

“Go get the leash,” Mac says, and Mickey runs to the spot where the lead is coiled up on the floor by the door. “I’m planning to train him to grab me tools eventually.”

“So, like Chewbacca in  _ Star Wars? _ Unless you teach him to identify them all by name, you might end up getting a lightsaber when you want a hydrospanner or whatever.”

“I don’t have either of those in my toolbox, Jack. They’re not a real thing.”

“You know what point I was tryin’ to make, dude,” Jack chuckles. “Seriously, though. You gotta invent a real lightsaber at some point. You could do it.” 

Mac just rolls his eyes, and as he hurries out the door behind Mickey, Jack grins.  _ Oh, he’s smart enough. He could do it. _

**Bozer**

_ (Post 2.13-CO2 Sensor+Tree Branch) _

Jack eyes the pile of food Bozer is heaping into Mickey’s bowl. "Bozer, you're going to make that poor dog obese."

"I haven't managed to put any fat at all on Mac, and the dog is more hyperactive than even him, which I kinda thought was impossible. So I think we're safe." Honestly, the reason he’s making one of Mickey’s meals each day from scratch is that the dog looks ribby. Even the high-energy formula food he’s on doesn’t seem to be doing much, and the vet said a prepared meal that could properly balance things for Mickey’s individual needs might help. He sent Bozer home with a list of ingredients and portions and said to keep weighing the dog and see if it helps.

Bozer wishes it was that easy to help Mac get a little healthier. But with them being out of the country all the time on missions, it’s hard to get his housemate to stick to a healthy schedule. He can leave leftovers in the fridge with the portion written on the cling wrap in Sharpie and be certain Penny or whoever’s dog-sitting will feed Mickey properly. If he leaves something in the fridge for Mac, it’ll probably just grow mold. 

Still, having the dog around  _ has _ helped. Mac seems a little less anxious, and having to take Mickey for runs to get his semi-destructive energy out tires him out enough that he sleeps with fewer nightmares, and also seems to have given him more of an appetite. There’s a little more color in his cheeks, and he doesn’t seem to tire as easily.  _ He keeps ending up in the infirmary, and that really messes with any strength he’s managed to build. _ But it seems better now, at least a little. Bozer will take a little. 

He makes Mickey sit before giving him his food, and watches as the dog devours his meal. Mickey taps his left back foot on the floor while he eats, and at first Bozer thought that meant he wanted to be taken outside, but he’s learned it’s just an odd little quirk. 

When Mac steps out of the bathroom, hair wet and his ankle boot clumping on the floor, Mickey looks up from his food dish, runs up to him, and begins licking his hands and face as soon as Mac bends down to greet him. 

“Maybe I should have just let you clean me up, huh?” Mac asks, chuckling as he fends off the exuberant dog’s tongue and stands up. “So much for a shower.” 

“It’s just good clean dog spit,” Jack says with a grin.

“Yeah, that smells like beef broth,” Mac says, grimacing slightly. “It’s in my nose.”

“Awww you know he loves you anyway, Mickey,” Bozer says, leaning down and putting an arm around the dog’s neck, and letting Mickey start licking  _ his _ face.  _ Oh Mac’s right. His breath does smell like his dinner. _

“Yeah, come here,” Jack says. “Might as well get us all, huh?” Bozer laughs, watching Jack wrestle the gangly dog to the floor, smiling the whole time.  _ He’s not just good for Mac. He’s good for all of us. _

**Sam**

_ (Post 2.15-Murdoc+Handcuffs) _

“I know you know how to fetch.” Sam sighs. Since she’s not often active field duty anymore, she’s been given the job of watching Mickey while the rest of the team goes off on yet another mission. 

_ I can figure out any human being alive. I can crawl inside their minds and make myself at home, I can make them do things they never even considered.  _ But she can’t get Mac’s dog to play with her.

It’s not for lack of trying. They’ve been at the park almost half an hour, and Sam is getting tired. She’s been throwing the ball and having to get it herself almost every time. And when Mickey does run after it, he just grabs it in his mouth and lays down, chewing on it.

She shakes her head, picking up the leash. “Would you rather go for a walk?”

They make it about halfway around the park before Mickey decides to stop and investigate a patch of grass. Sam takes a deep breath. They’re the only ones here at this hour of the morning, at least on this side of the park. It’s peaceful, and even the city noise is slightly muted by the trees. 

She closes her eyes and lets a cool breeze that smells a little more like dirt and grass than smoke and gasoline wash over her. The air is damp with mist off the ocean, and the slight salty tang of it reminds her of home.

She blinks when a cold, damp, dirty nose nudges itself into her palm. Mickey is giving her a goofy, lolling tongued look that on a human she’d call a grin. And then she gets it. 

_ He could tell I was stressed, thinking about the team off on a mission without me there to help watch their backs. And he knew I needed to calm down, not get worked up playing with him. _

She smiles and bends over to scratch behind his ears, the spot she knows he loves, and his hind leg and tail both thump happily. 

“Yes, you’re a good boy, Mickey. A very good boy.”

**Riley**

_ (Post 2.20-Skyscraper-Power) _

Riley would never call herself a dog person. She’s  _ fine  _ with dogs, Jack’s family’s ranch dogs don’t bother her. At all. They don’t. 

She just doesn’t have a major amount of trust there. It’s not that she’s ever been bitten, she just grew up with warnings about not going near dogs she saw by themselves on the street, not feeding strays, and not running if one ever tried to chase her. Those warnings burned themselves into her mind, and while she  _ has _ been chased by dogs on more than one mission, it’s still her childhood that makes her avoid them.

Mickey’s cute and all, a little ball of fuzz and wet nose and oversized paws, and it’s fine. At first. Until he’s too rough taking a treat from her hand, and nips her finger hard enough that it actually draws blood.

Riley knows he didn’t mean to, that she ought to have offered the treat on the flat of her hand instead of holding it in her fingers, but that doesn’t change the fact that he bit her, and it leaves her on edge. She lets the others play with Mickey during the bonfire nights, occasionally throwing the ball for him but not really getting into it like they do. 

That is, until the night after they finally catch the Tiger. When her worst nightmare is behind prison bars, and the memories of Nepal can finally be tinged with a hint of victory. She’s on her third beer, she normally doesn’t have so many, but Sam promised to drive her home, knowing full well this mission was a hard one for Riley to take. She sets the bottle down and her hand meets fur.

Mickey presses himself up against her, and in that second, Riley’s emotions bubble over. She turns and buries her face in the thick fur on his neck and begins to cry, a strange hitched sobbing that mixes with half-hysterical laughs. She doesn’t know what she’s even crying for, what this emotion is, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s feeling it, letting out something that’s been trapped in her for almost six years. Mickey doesn’t judge. He just makes a soft rumbling sound in his chest and lets her hold him, licking her face when she finally lets go, and she almost starts crying again at the thought that he’s so experienced in what to do when someone just grabs onto him and starts crying.

The next night, when she comes over, there’s a juicy-looking bone under her arm, a ball in her hand, and a smile on her face as soon as Mickey comes to the door. 

**Leanna**

_ (Post 3.01-Improvise) _

Leanna glances into Mac’s infirmary room. Jack is still in there, she doesn’t think he ever leaves. Bozer and Riley are there as well. And Mickey is curled up on the bed over Mac’s legs. 

She turns around to walk away and not intrude on the private family moment, but Mickey looks up and barks softly at her footsteps. 

_ Busted. _

Bozer glances at the door and catches her eye. She ducks her head shyly, turning away. Mac is buried in blankets, but she still somehow feels like she’s intruding on his privacy, seeing more than he would want her to. Seeing him at a low like this. 

She barely knows him, and she’s sure he won’t be comfortable with her around. But Bozer is motioning to her to come in, and the only thing that would be worse than walking in awkwardly would be trying to make an excuse that didn’t sound lame and hurt Mac even more.  _ I don’t want him to think I see him as someone weak or broken. _

She walks in and sits down next to Bozer, focusing on the dog snuffling her hands instead of the thin, pale face barely visible lying on the pillow. She can see Mac’s hand in Jack’s, and the fingers are thin as sticks. She remembers watching him work what almost seemed like magic with those clever hands. She wonders if he’ll ever be able to do it again.

Everyone talks around the words ‘brain damaged’. Just like they did with her after the meningitis.  _ No one wanted to come right out and say it. They acted like it was a curse word. _ The doctors used bigger words to cover it up, complicated science terms like the ones Mac tended to randomly spout off. Now he’s silent. It seems so horribly wrong.

She wonders if he’ll be as fortunate as her. If his brain will start compensating for what’s been harmed.  _ He’s so good at improvising, I hope that’s something inherent. Something that might be able to save him. _ Maybe Mac can do more than put cars together with duct tape and paperclips. Maybe he can put himself back together too.

Mac stirs under the blankets, and Mickey instantly sits up, ears pricked and aware. He pushes himself up under Mac’s free arm, as Mac whimpers in the throes of a nightmare. Leanna takes a deep, shaky breath. This is why she didn’t want to come. Mac wouldn’t want her to see this.

He blinks awake at the dog’s insistent nudging, and glances around at the people sitting by his bed. When he sees her, his eyes widen for a moment. She looks away.  _ I was right. I shouldn’t have come in here. _

And then Mac pulls Mickey a little closer to him, and she hears a soft whisper, the sounds raspy and broken but the words at least coming past his lips. “Go say hi, Mickey.” 

And when the dog squirms his way up to her, tail wagging, he’s licking the tears off her cheeks.  _ Mac isn’t okay right now. But maybe he will be. _ They can hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will see Desi’s interaction with Mickey coming up soon! After all, 3.15 is planned to be about the people Jack brought Mickey home from...


	4. Burns+Routines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES it's a day early...but I'm going to work early tomorrow and I wanted to post this now!

###  Burns+Routines

**(Post 2.14-Mardi Gras Beads+Chair)**

“Mac, you sure you’re good with this?”

Mac just nods. He doesn’t exactly trust his voice to work properly right now, and he doesn’t want Jack to think he’s scared. Because he’s not. It’s just Jack. Jack is never going to hurt him. And he has to take a shower. He feels sticky and grimy and a shower sounds marginally better and less humiliating than the alternative his medical orders offer. He’s not going for a sponge bath unless he’s flat on his back in the infirmary. Which is where he’s been a few too many times for his own comfort. 

“Too bad you won’t be able to take a picture of me afterward,” Jack says with a chuckle. “I could probably win a wet t-shirt contest.” He grins. 

“That Metallica shirt  _ needs  _ to be worn in the shower. For a week.” Mac wrinkles his nose. “And I thought I was the one who needed to get cleaned up.” 

“Come on, sweat is an essential accessory of a rock band tee, you know that.” 

He knows Jack’s trying to make things seem normal. And Mac appreciates it, the lighthearted banter that feels more like they’re just spending time together than that Jack is needed to help Mac with all the things he can’t do for himself with his burned hands.

Jack even tells Mac jokingly about his own stints in a hospital when he wasn’t allowed to do things for himself, makes light of his own experiences while clearly hoping it will make Mac feel better. And most of the time it does. 

But hearing Jack’s embarrassing stories (including the one he didn’t tell, but Riley did, about the incident in Bolivia involving a hospital gown, Matty, and allegedly three months with a CIA therapist for Riley) doesn’t always help when it comes right down to whatever the humiliating situation of the day is. Jack has been an agent for too long to be embarrassed by anything, and Mac doesn’t think that even before that he was the type to be shy in the locker room. 

Not that Mac started out particularly self-conscious either; he’d endured some teasing for being a skinny twig of a kid back in the day, but that had been the worst of it until prison. Now he’s not even really comfortable showering in the Phoenix locker rooms without Jack around.

The irony of being afraid to shower there  _ without _ Jack while here, having to take a shower with Jack in the room is sending him to the edge of a panic attack, almost makes him break into hysterical laughter.  _ He already has to help you with things that are just as humiliating.  _ But somehow the shower is worse, because the shower is where he remembers being attacked. It’s not like there weren’t times in his cell, or in a corner of the yard the guards conveniently forgot to check. But the most recent memory is Bishop, and for some reason it feels worse than all the other times combined.

He tries to push the thoughts away. He needs to be okay right now. It took a lot of nerve just to say this was what he wanted. He doesn’t want to back out now. He woke up sweaty and screaming from the last nightmare and he needs to wash that away. 

Jack tugs off his socks and tosses them aside. He’s wearing his Metallica tee and a pair of swim trunks, and he’s already helped Mac take off his sweatpants and shirt, although they both agreed it’s probably best to leave his underwear on. Jack’s already helping him wash up there once a day, and Mac really doesn’t want to do that in the shower right now. He doesn’t think he could stay out of his memories. Not that he’s sure he can anyway. He’s sort of terrified he’ll have a flashback and be unable to do this again for the duration of his burn treatment. Which means having to figure something else out.

Jack turns on the water, holding one hand in the spray. “How hot you want it, kiddo?”

“Um, not scalding, but pretty hot. Just as long as it won’t give either of us more burns.” Jack’s feet are, in his own opinion, fine. He’s burnt the soles of them a hundred times over as a kid in Texas, walking on hot sand and asphalt, and Mac figures he knows when he’s in real trouble as opposed to an inconvenience.

Still, he slides on the flip-flops that will protect the healing skin from any germs or fungus on the shower floor.

“Damn, these things are slippery,” Jack says. “Try not to punch me or anything, I might actually lose my balance.”

“I think falls in the shower or bath  _ are  _ a significant cause of elderly deaths. So I’ll be careful.” Mac smirks.

“Oh, funny.” Jack says. “Keep this up and I’m buying hair dye for the next time we do this.” He makes an exaggerated finger-to-the-chin expression. “I think you could rock fluorescent teal.” He sticks his hand back into the water. “Okay, we better get started before Bozer complains we used up all the hot water.”

Mac gives him a weak smile before stepping into the shower, keeping his wrapped hands out of the spray. They’re covered in a layer of plastic now as well, but still no sense in taking chances. The burns are healing well, according to medical, and Mac doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

Warm water runs down over his back and shoulders, and it should feel good, he should be relaxing, but the only thing the water is doing is making him feel more tense, more on edge. He’s not safe.

Even though he’s left his underwear on, he still feels horribly exposed and vulnerable.  _ They could do anything they wanted, and I couldn’t stop them… _ He shakes off the thoughts, he’s not in prison and Jack would never hurt him.

“Hey Mac?” Jack’s voice is gentle. “You still good? Or wanna change your mind?”

“I’m okay.” Mac hears Jack step into the shower beside him, the flip-flops slapping wetly on the tile. Jack doesn’t stand behind him, instead he stays at Mac’s side, where Mac can see everything he does and not feel trapped or threatened. No one had to discuss it. Jack just  _ knows. _ And Mac appreciates it.

Jack reaches for the bottle of shampoo. “Okay, I’m gonna be gentle,” he says quietly. “I’ll do your hair first and let it rinse out, alright?” Mac knows Jack also wants to do something that feels more safe and familiar. He’s already washed Mac’s hair out once in the sink to get the smoke smell out, because it was giving Mac nightmares of not being able to get Jack out in time.

Mac leans into the gentleness of Jack’s fingers rubbing against his scalp. It feels safe and comforting, but it’s also reassuringly  _ Jack, _ because no one else has washed Mac’s hair since his mom died. At least not this gently. There was the time he got something sticky in it doing a science experiment in middle school, but James had given up on washing it out and just cut out the chunks of Mac’s hair that were glued together with his homemade attempt at silly string.

There’s a bump on the shower door, and Mac almost jumps out of his skin.  _ Who’s in here? Bozer knows better… _ And then he sees the imprint of a triangular black nose on the steamed-up glass.  _ Mickey. _

“Damn, I thought I locked the door,” Jack says.

“Lock sticks,” Mac manages. “Sometimes it doesn’t work.” He’s only been walked in on by Bozer a few times, that week when the toilet drain got messed up in Bozer’s bathroom, but he really was meaning to fix the lock at some point. He’s just been so busy, and now his hands don’t work.

“Still, how’d he get the knob open?” Jack asks. “He’s like a velociraptor.  _ Jurassic Park, _ you know?” Mac nods. “Dude, there’s a series we haven’t marathoned yet!”

“I thought you said the frilled lizard gave you nightmares?” Mac asks.

“I know. But I’ll see if I can handle it this time.”

Mickey bumps the glass again, and Mac shakes his head, water spraying off his hair like  _ he’s  _ the wet puppy.  _ Great, Jack’s comparisons are even rubbing off on me. _ “Mickey, you don’t wanna be in here, trust me. You hate taking baths anyway.” Mickey doesn’t so much mind getting wet as he hates getting lathered up with shampoo and rinsed. Fortunately he doesn’t get filthy very often.

“I’d let you in but I think you’d probably knock us all over,” Jack says.

“Yeah, and that would be bad, cause I don’t think you’re wearing your Life Alert,” Mac chuckles.

“Right, make fun of the old man,” Jack says. “Remind me next time I break a leg to tell Matty I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

“I think she’d break your other leg for you.” Mac feels better about things again for a moment, while Jack rubs in conditioner and then grabs the bar soap, lathering some up on a washcloth.

“Here, look at me, gonna do your face so close your eyes for just a second, okay?” Jack says gently. Mac does, breathing carefully but shallowly until he can open them again.  _ I didn’t panic. That’s good. That’s good. _

Jack starts on his shoulders and arms, but when he runs the cloth over the inside of Mac’s upper arm, he can’t help but flinch.

“Something wrong?” Jack asks.

“Ticklish,” Mac manages. The inside of his arm and his side are both bad. Bozer used to know that and use it against him mercilessly when they roughhoused. It feels like an eternity since Mac fought anyone over anything less than life and death, or in training sessions with Jack. It isn’t a game anymore.

“Oh. Sorry.” Mac appreciates that Jack doesn’t say anything more, not even a lighthearted joke. He just moves on, scrubbing the washcloth over Mac’s back. Mac can feel it catch on some of the gnarlier scars. He grimaces. It’s almost as vulnerable a feeling to let Jack see how damaged he is in such a close up way as it is to let him touch Mac when he’s so defenseless. He knows Jack’s seen all the scars already, but he’s never touched them.

He can tell which ones Jack’s seeing by the moments he can hear the man’s breath catch in his throat. The gunshot wounds too close to lungs, the knife stabs that Carlos always said were a miracle they didn’t destroy organs. Jack works his way over Mac’s back and chest and then moves on to his legs.

Which is when everything falls apart.

_ Mac tries to pull away, but someone’s holding his shoulders, and then there’s a blow to his stomach that leaves him bent over and gasping for air. _

_ Hands slide down his legs, pushing them apart, wandering to places they shouldn’t be. Mac tries to kick out and push this guy away, but when he lands a decent kick that draws a grunt out of his tormentor, he’s slammed against the tile wall so hard he hears a crack and sees stars. His shoulder is on fire, he thinks the hit broke his collarbone. _

_ The hands pin him to the wall, and Mac thrashes against them. “Come on, pretty boy, this can be a good time.” _

“Stop!” Mac gasps.

“Hey, easy. It’s okay,” Jack says, and his voice cuts through the flashback, pulling Mac back to the present. “You wanna get out?”

“Yeah.” The water is still perfectly warm, but Mac is shivering. He feels cold and shaky. Jack shuts the water off and steps around in front of Mac, looking him in the eyes. 

“You gonna fall over, or can I let go of you to grab the towel?” Mac only now realizes that the hands on his shoulders really were there, Jack’s hands keeping him from falling in the midst of his nightmare.

“I’ll be okay. Just let me lean on the wall.” Mac says quietly. Jack helps him move enough to get his shoulder against the tile. Mac can hear Mickey whining, the sound echoes off the walls. His dog knows he’s in distress. 

Jack grabs a towel and wraps it around Mac’s shoulders, rubbing briskly. “We’ll get you some dry clothes and then breakfast, sound good?” Mac just nods. Jack gets an arm around his waist and helps him out of the shower, and Mac forces himself not to react to the fingers that miss the edge of the towel and brush his skin. The flashback shook him. Badly.

Mickey presses up against him, and Mac bends down. He can’t pet the dog, but the smell of warm fur is still reassuring. He focuses on the dog, on Mickey’s steady in and out breaths and the wide liquid brown eyes, and not on Jack’s hands changing him into warm, dry clothes. Only when he has to lift his arms so Jack can tug the sweatshirt (it’s his, not Mac’s, it’s an old CIA training one that’s huge and ratty and well loved) over his head does he stop leaning over Mickey and matching his breaths to his dog’s. 

Jack doesn’t move away once he’s settled the sweatshirt over Mac’s head. He kneels down on the wet tile and looks up, brushing away a chunk of wet hair that’s fallen in Mac’s face. “Kiddo, I am  _ so sorry _ for whatever I did that caused that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mac says. “Drugs are messing with my head.” He hasn’t even taken any of the pain medication today yet, but he also hasn’t been able to eat a lot, so whatever he does take is more potent. He hates taking it at all, but burns hurt possibly the worst of any kind of injury he’s ever had. 

“I know.” Jack says, grabbing a smaller towel and scrubbing it over Mac’s dripping hair. “But it’s still my fault you gotta take them at all.” Mac knows Jack blames himself for what happened, he can see the guilt and grief written on the man’s face every time he changes Mac’s bandages or helps him eat or does any one of the myriad simple things that seem like nothing until you can’t do them for yourself. Mac is sure he’ll never take his hands for granted again.

He also can’t afford to take Jack for granted.  _ I know how dangerous this job is, but Jack always seemed invincible. Like he couldn’t really die. _ But seeing the fire, hearing Jack calling out for help, reminded Mac all too well that his partner is human. Vulnerable. That any mission could be his last. Mac doesn’t regret what he did. Because Jack is never going to be an acceptable loss, not to him. Not even if the damage to his hands had been ten times worse. 

He shakes off the thoughts, focusing on the sunlight coming in the windows. It’s morning, and in the daylight those nightmares need to vanish. He avoids looking too closely at his hands while Jack changes the bandages and cleans and dresses the wounds.  _ The doctors say this is all normal. That they’re healing well and shouldn’t get worse.  _ But healing burns just look terrible. Mac isn’t actually so sure eating breakfast after this is something he can do.  _ Just don’t look at it. Don’t think about it.  _ The doctors say it’s a good sign that Mac can feel pain during cleanings, that that means his nerve endings weren’t destroyed.  _ I have to keep looking at the bright sides. I have to.  _

“What do you want for breakfast?” Jack asks once he has Mac’s hands wrapped up again. “I think Bozer left waffles in the freezer, right?” Mac nods. Bozer and Riley are running an op from Phoenix, a long con that involves a shipping company potentially smuggling endangered animals from South America. It’s not their normal type of op, but since the smugglers are double-dipping and also transporting shipments of cartel drugs from a manufacturer in one of the the countries they operate out of, the job landed in Phoenix’s lap. 

Jack jokes that Bozer is going to come home with a crate of sad-looking monkeys he couldn’t bear to leave behind. Mac thinks that’s more Jack’s department, taking pity on helpless lost creatures.  _ I guess I’m lucky he does.  _

It’s only slightly less humiliating that Jack needs to help him eat than that he has to be there any time Mac wants to use the bathroom or shower.  _ I feel like a child. Like a helpless infant. _ Because he sort of is, right now. And Jack is spending all his time looking after him. _ James always used to say having a kid was just too much work, that he was glad I was at least old enough to do some things for myself by the time he was left with me by himself. _

Jack pops a couple frozen waffles into the toaster. “Okay, what do you want on them?” He asks. 

“Just butter. Not so messy.” Needing Jack’s help means half the syrup usually ends up on Mac’s chin and cheeks. 

“Okay.” Jack pulls the butter dish out of the cupboard. “And to drink?”

“Milk.” 

Jack pours a glass and sets it on the table, then fills another one with grape juice for himself. He’s been buying groceries this week, and Mac’s fridge and cupboards are full. Even fuller than when it’s Bozer’s responsibility. And Mac thought  _ he _ was concerned about him eating enough. 

The glass on the table is tempting. Mac is thirsty and his throat is dry from screaming in his nightmare. But more than that, he’s been thinking about this, and he’s pretty sure if he applies enough force to the sides of the glass with both hands, he can pick it up. He might be better off using his wrists, since putting pressure on his palms will hurt, but that will also mean he has less control. Maybe using the heels of his hands could be a good compromise. 

Mac tries to pick up the glass between his heavily bandaged hands.  _ Maybe I can do this one thing.  _ He just wants to feel somewhat capable. After this morning’s flashback, feeling helpless is no longer just annoying, it’s terrifying.  _ I was helpless then, and it was terrible. _ Being able to do something for himself might help put that memory back in the hole where it belongs.

The glass slips out of his clumsy bandaged hands and crashes to the floor. Mac flinches at the clatter, and Jack turns around, bending down to pick up the blue tumbler that’s rolled over to his feet. 

“That’s why we’re using the plastic ones,” Jack says. “I haven’t trusted myself with glass since I was old enough to use it. Momma didn’t either.” 

“I’m sorry, I should have waited for you,” Mac says weakly. He messed this up. Jack was doing so well, making them a nice breakfast, and Mac’s stupid pride just made more things Jack has to do for him.  _ I wanted him to have one less job when it came to me, not one more. _ Tears prickle the corners of his eyes. He wants to sink into the floor.  _ I try to help and all I ever do is make it worse. _ One tear slips out and runs down his cheek. He reaches up with the back of his arm to wipe it away. 

“Never cry over spilled milk, right?” Jack says, watching Mickey lick up the mess, and standing by with a handful of wet paper towels to finish the cleanup job. “Mac, it’s okay. I’m not mad. No one is mad at you, okay?”

Mac nods slowly. Jack isn’t James. He isn’t going to scold and slap and make Mac take care of the problem himself. 

Jack wipes the paper towels over the floor and tosses them in the trash, then brings over the plates of waffles. Mac can see the steam rising from them in the light from the window.

“See, still warm,” Jack says. “Nothing to worry about.” He pours Mac a new glass of milk, this time in a green plastic cup. 

“Thank you,” Mac whispers. It’s not enough, not nearly enough of an expression of gratitude for everything Jack is doing for him, but he knows that Jack knows all the meaning Mac is putting into those words.  _ Thank you for being patient. Thank you for not getting mad at me. Thank you for not leaving, for not giving up on me. Thank you.  _

“Here, let’s try this again.” Jack wraps his hands over Mac’s, and Mac could swear he feels the warmth and the familiar calluses even though the layers of bandages. This time the cup doesn’t slip, and Mac is able to take a small sip and set it down again. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s the only kind of mustache you’re ever going to succeed at,” Jack says, wiping the rag gently over Mac’s lips. “But I don’t think facial hair suits you. Not even the milk kind.”

“You’re one to talk. I’ve seen the pictures from your undercover in ‘08.” Mac says. “You shouldn’t be allowed to grow a mustache either.” Matty pulled them out one evening when they were sitting around the fire pit. Jack had more hair, and more black than grey in it, but the mustache just kind of eclipsed it all. Jack has made a lot of questionable fashion decisions, and Mac remembers thinking the faux-hawk was ridiculous when they first met, but he actually prefers it to the look from Jack’s early CIA days. 

Jack frowns at him. “Are you kidding me? I was rocking that look.”  _ At least you have to admire his total confidence in off the wall fashion choices. _ Mac’s pretty sure that just ignoring that it’s weird is the only reason Jack’s gotten away with band tees and a leather wrist cuff on official ops. And he’s passed the trait on to Riley, with her love of crop tops and ripped skinny jeans.  _ Definitely not the business casual attire Phoenix’s official policy mandates. _ But both of them get away with it. 

“If you were going for total weirdo, sure, you were definitely rocking that.” 

“Mac, when have I ever given you the impression that I am  _ not _ a total weirdo?” Jack chuckles, and Mac grins. Yes, his life kind of sucks right now, but he couldn’t have a better person than Jack to get him through it.  _ We’re both just weird enough, I guess. _ He wouldn’t have it any other way.


	5. TSA+Baggage

###  TSA+Baggage

**(Somewhere in Season 3: Pre 3.11-Mac+Fallout+Jack)**

Jack hates flying commercial. Yes, he’s well aware there are times their mission isn’t as high priority as the one another team needed the jet for. A simple surveillance observe and report in Romania doesn’t count as reason enough to take the jet. So Jack, Riley, and Mac are currently lugging their carry-ons through LAX. 

Riley bites her lip as she watches the flight listings flick past on an overhead screen. Jack knows she’s not the biggest fan of commercial flights after the near disaster with Billy last year. Even the first few times they were on the Phoenix jet he watched her white-knuckle the armrests during turbulence and played War with her, badly, for hours on end to distract her. He knew she didn’t want to admit to the fear, that she wanted to forget it. But he made sure to keep an eye on her and offer subtle comfort and distraction when she needed it. 

But the Phoenix jet is vastly different from the one that Beck almost knocked out of the sky, and Jack knows Riley’s most traumatic memories are associated with this exact kind of plane. He’s got a deck of cards in his carry-on and a boarding pass that seats him next to Riley, courtesy of Matty’s equally perceptive awareness.  _ She knew I’d need to be with her. _

He knows it had to be hard getting seats together on a last-minute booking like this, and he deeply appreciates whatever Matty did to get them. He can see Riley’s fingers tense on her carry-on, where he knows her laptop is tucked away safely. He puts a hand on her arm, and she looks up at him. There’s tension and worry in the lines around her eyes and lips, little signs that Jack knows to look for.

She takes a deep breath, looking up and then back at Jack. “I know it’s silly, I know he’s in a black site cell, but…”

“It’s not silly. Something bad happened and you remember it. PTSD doesn’t care if something hurt you or scared you. Same thing.” Jack remembers how long it took for  _ him _ to accept that it was okay to be afraid of things he survived. Okay to have nightmares when there wasn’t a physical wound on his body.  _ Almost dying doesn’t have to just come from a bullet. _ “You’re gonna be okay, alright? I’m gonna stay with you the whole flight. And you can thrash me in War again.”

“You were losing on purpose. I saw you rearrange the deck.” A slight smile quirks the corners of her lips. “You’re such a dad, Jack.”

“Can you blame me?”

“For trying to fix everything with card games and lame jokes?” Mac asks, shoving his shoulder. “We can always blame you.”

“You better be glad you got a seat in the middle section,” Jack replies. “Otherwise we’d have been playing three way War and you’d have gotten  _ beat. _ ” Matty was only able to get two adjoining seats, ones on the outside of the aisle. Jack has window, Riley has center. Mac is one row up in the aisle seat. Jack wishes he could sit with both his kids, since Mac isn’t a huge fan of heights himself, but sometimes you have to pick your battles, and right now Riley is the one he’s most likely to have to bring down from a panic attack on this flight.  _ Just another reason commercial sucks _

He also hates the lines. Lines for everything. And scanners that mean all his weapons, even Mac’s treasured knife, have to be stored in their checked baggage. Granted, Jack’s have to go in a special compartment that the scanners won’t pick up, and Mac’s just has to be  _ in _ his checked baggage, but still. Even his paperclips have to be stored in his carryon so they won’t set off the scanners. No one wants to take chances on him getting pulled aside by security, he wouldn’t react well to that at all. 

Even though Mac’s record has been scrubbed by Phoenix (Riley made sure of that herself, checking the entirety of Mac’s digital footprint to make sure the murder and terrorism charges were completely gone), there’s no guarantee that someone wouldn’t recognize him from a watchlist. Jack is well aware that Mac’s arrest and trial were very public news, and that erasing all of that from the web can’t erase it from people’s minds. 

They’re waiting in line to get their passports checked, now, and Jack is fidgety. He feels like he’s the one who needs to be playing with a paperclip. He looks up at the line in front of him, then turns when he feels something brush against him and hears a stern voice. 

“Excuse me, sir, could you come with me please?”

_ Great. I must look scary enough to get selected for random checks.  _ It’s not even the first time, either. Jack sighs and starts to turn around when he realizes the hand isn’t on his arm. It’s on the person behind him.  _ Mac. _

Jack can hear the kid breathing faster, starting to panic. “What’s this about?” Jack asks.

The TSA officer looks far too calm for this whole situation, especially as Mac begins to shake. “Just a random check, sir. He’ll have to come with us.” 

“I thought those things showed up on your boarding pass,” Jack protests. There’s supposed to be a little SSSS marker on them, Jack’s gotten several that he’s sure happened because of ‘suspicious itinerary’ or last minute bookings. Phoenix makes sure that doesn’t happen if they’re in charge, but occasionally Jack’s had to rush book his own flights and ended up with the extra security measures. 

He can hear Riley beside him tapping her shoe on the tile and clearly worried, her breathing has picked up too. But unlike him, she’s choosing not to argue.  _ She probably doesn’t want to make it worse than it already is. _

“If you keep protesting, sir, you’ll be asked to come with us as well.” Jack takes a deep breath and backs off, because he doesn’t want to be responsible for making this worse for Mac.  _ I’m making it look like he has something to hide. _

Mac has gone white, his breathing shallow and panicky, and when the man takes his arm to lead him away, he turns and gives Jack a desperate look.

_ I’m so sorry, kid, I can’t do anything. _ He can’t offer to be taken in Mac’s place, because clearly the kid was pulled out of line specifically.

“Why did they take him?” Riley asks.

“Random check. It wasn’t even on his damn ticket.” Jack sighs. “Why the hell would they just grab him out of line, of all people?”

_ There was absolutely no warning and they pulled him out in a weird place. _ Jack wonders if someone who’s been with LAX long enough to have seen Mac on a terrorist watchlist caught sight of him. Something about all this is rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Riley, I’m gonna try and figure this out, okay?” Because if they start pushing Mac to the point of making him think he might be arrested again, he’s definitely going to panic. 

Jack pushes his way out of line, which attracts the attention of another TSA official walking past. The guy frowns at Jack, even though he’s probably two inches shorter and looks Riley’s age. “Excuse me, sir, you’re not allowed to cut the line.”

“I’m not trying to cut the line. My friend got pulled out for a random check.”

“That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong. They’re called random checks because they  _ are _ random.”

“Listen, he’s...he’s…” Jack bites his lip. “I think it’s intentional and I also think it’s a mistake.”

“If it’s a mistake, then he’ll be checked and allowed to continue the boarding procedure.” The TSA agent’s voice is getting a little sharper. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Jack knows he’s done something to set off this guy’s instincts, but it should at least help him actually get a chance to explain Mac’s issues. “Okay.”

He turns around to see Riley by herself in the passport line, looking more worried than ever. He gives her a ‘go ahead’ nod and she nods back, turning around and squaring her shoulders.  _ I’m so sorry, kiddo. I want to help you both.  _

“Can you tell me why you’re so interested in another passenger’s random search?” The TSA agent, whose badge Jack can now see says Marcus, asks. 

“He’s my son. Names on the passports won’t match,” Jack says quickly, because he just caused a major loophole, “he’s a stepkid. And he’s sensory sensitive. Doing a patdown is going to terrify him.”

“Is he autistic?” Marcus asks, his whole face seeming to change at Jack’s words. 

“Yeah.” It’s hard to get a positive diagnosis on an adult but Phoenix Med has it listed on his file, Mac shows enough traits to meet criteria. “Very high functioning but he’s got some PTSD from abuse in former homes.” Jack doesn’t mention prison right now, he doesn’t really want to bring that up to a security guard.

“Damn, I’m sorry. I’ll get in touch with the agents who are with him, make sure they know that and try to get a workaround.” Marcus sighs. “My kid’s six, he’s autistic too, so I get it. I’d never want to see him scared or hurt like that. I hope whoever decided a kid like yours was a good target for abuse pays for it.” 

Jack nods. James is currently sitting in a Phoenix ten-by-ten, but all the men who hurt Mac in prison...Jack wants to put a bullet in each of them himself. 

“Can I get a description of him so we make sure I’m talking to the team working with your kid?” Marcus asks.

“Yeah. His name’s Mac...Angus MacGyver.” Jack frowns, it’s so rare to use Mac’s full name he had to think about it first.  _ And three years ago I was calling him Carl’s Jr. because of it.  _ That feels like a lifetime ago. “He’s twenty-five, blond, about five-ten.” 

Marcus pulls out his radio. “Hey, any of you just pull a guy in his mid twenties out of line for a random check?”

Jack hears an affirmative buzz over the radio. 

“I got his dad here with me, says his kid’s autistic and sensory stimuli sensitive. Also has a history of abuse.” Marcus turns back to Jack, a hand cupped over the radio. They’re in a quiet hall now, away from the crowds, and his voice is low. “He wants to know if you’re talking only physical or if there was a sexual component.”

Jack swallows. He doesn’t want to spill the kid’s life history to someone he doesn’t even know, and he knows Mac would be humiliated if a stranger found out.

Marcus must take Jack’s silence for what it is, because he turns back to the radio and says quietly, “To be safe I’d assume worst case scenario.” He listens to whatever’s said, then clips his radio back to his belt and turns back to Jack. “They’re going to be careful, make sure not to do something he’d find traumatic. And you can see him as soon as they’re done, I’ll take you over.” 

It still feels like forever before a pale, shaky Mac steps out of the door of the room he was being checked in. He’s huddled into himself, trembling and fidgeting with his fingers like there’s a paperclip in his hands, and Jack’s afraid to touch him.  _ How traumatized is he? _

Jack jumps when someone taps his shoulder. It’s Marcus. “They only did a partial body check on him, stopped as soon as they noticed it was causing distress. It’s not typical, but they said they’ll take the clear scanner readings as enough.” Jack nods, immeasurably grateful. “You’re free to continue boarding.”

Mac clings to Jack like a burr for the rest of the process, not letting his body touch Jack’s but keeping a hand on him at all times and making small sounds of distress whenever a procedure demands that the two of them break contact. It feels like forever before they’re allowed into the gate seating area, less than fifteen minutes before their plane is supposed to be finished boarding. Jack sees Riley’s messy bun over the back of one of the hard plastic chairs. “Hey, Ri, we made it.”

Riley jumps up, and relief floods her face at the sight of both of them walking in, although that rapidly changes to worry as she takes in the state he’s in. 

“They asked my section to board already, but I told them I had to wait for you. I thought they might want to take  _ me _ away after that,” She says, and Jack forces a small smile.  _ Weak jokes to try and defuse tension are my line. _ “Mac, are you okay?”

“Will be,” He manages. Jack can still feel him shaking.

“I guess we should get on the plane if we’re going,” Jack says quietly. “Mac, are you feeling up to traveling right now? If you’re not, we can stop and turn around and go home right now.”

Mac just bites his lip and stares at the worn carpet, but he slowly nods.  _ He wants to keep going. Damn it, he’ll be miserable either way. He doesn’t want to let this scare him off, he doesn’t want to give up and feel like he’s failing Matty, but he’s also really traumatized right now.  _

“Take it.” Riley hands Mac her boarding pass. “I’ll be okay. You can sit by Jack.”

Jack doesn’t know if he’s ever been so proud of his girl. He can tell this experience has only shaken her more, that she doesn’t  _ want _ to sit alone for a sixteen hour trip. But he can also see how much more she wants to make sure Mac is alright.

“Just take it, kiddo,” Jack says. “She’ll make you.”

Mac takes the paper and gives Riley a weak smile. “Th-thank you,” he manages. It’s the first thing Jack’s heard him voluntarily say since that room. He answered most of the questions for Mac, the kid had gone more or less nonverbal from the fear.  _ It happens more often now that he’s dealing with that head injury on top of everything else, so I’ve gotten more used to being his voice when he needs it. _ Granted, this was the worst incident so far.

Jack gives Mac the window seat in their row, so the only person he has to be close to is Jack himself. Mac huddles into the seat, shaking and rocking gently, and Jack pulls out the travel blanket from his own seat and Mac’s and tucks them in around the kid gently. Mac’s going to want to feel as protected and covered as possible right now. 

Riley turns around from stowing her carryon in the overhead compartment. “How is he?” She asks quietly. 

Jack just glances at her, then back at Mac. “We’ll see,” he finally manages. “Might need your advice on how to stave off a panic attack at thirty thousand feet.” He’s pretty sure Riley is the expert on how to deal with those right now. It’s so much harder to handle 

“Sure thing.” Riley sits down, but turns, looking over the edge of her seat back at Mac and Jack. 

The middle-aged woman sitting next to Jack, her hair in a professional bun that reminds him of Patty, looks from Riley to Mac and Jack. “Is she with you?” the woman asks. 

“Yeah. My daughter,” Jack says. “Adopted.” 

“Hon, if you want to sit with your family, you can.” The woman stands up, nodding to Riley. “I’m traveling alone, it’s no hardship to change seats.” 

“Thank you,” Riley says, sliding into the seat the woman just vacated. Jack gives her a small nod, all he can manage at the moment. Mac’s hand slips out from under the blanket and grips Jack’s leg tightly as the plane starts to taxi away from the gate, and Jack puts his own over it comfortably. This is going to be a long flight. But they have each other. It’s going to be okay. 


	6. Abina+Ice Cream

**Post 3.07 Scavengers+Hard Drive+Dragonfly**

LOS ANGELES

88 DEGREES FARENHEIT

IN THE SHADE

“Okay, pick a flavor,” Riley says, grinning as Abina stares wide-eyed at the menu list outside the street shop, each flavor listed with a different color chalk and a different style of handwriting on the blackboard. 

“There are so many!” Abina gasps. 

“I know, right?” Riley says. “Here, you can see what they look like in the window.” She points to the chilled tubs on the other side of the glass, where Gina is standing with a scoop in her hand and a grin on her face. 

“A first timer, yes?” She asks, and Riley nods. “I would recommend the Butter Pecan crunch, then. It’s mild, and it’s the type I’ve never, ever had a gritty taste show up in. Ever.” She pushes a curl of black hair back under her pink hairnet. 

“Then I will try it.” Abina says, watching with riveted attention as Gina scoops up a thick pale curl of the flavor and heaps it onto one of her freshly made waffle cones (another of the many reasons this is Riley’s favorite ice cream shop in L.A. “On the house for first time guests,” She says, handing it over the counter.

“On the house?” Abina asks.

“Means it’s free,” Riley replies. She glances over the selection herself. “Mint Chocolate Chip for me, Gina, thanks.” 

She glances at the signboard again, at the brown and white letters advertising Rocky Road, and thinks of Mac. She hasn’t seen him order any other flavor since...since Zoe. 

She invited both him and Jack to come with her, but they bowed out, apparently Mac took the GTO apart while  _ sleepwalking _ ...Riley doesn’t want to know, really...and they’re trying to fix it. She grins at the thought of Mac with sleep-mussed hair and half-closed eyes sitting on the garage floor with a toolbox. Jack said he woke up, panicked when he couldn’t find Mac in his room, until Mickey came running in and led him to the garage where Mac was curled up asleep in the back seat. 

_ I’m glad Jack moved into that house. _ Riley knows it’s good for both of them, to have that kind of close safety. She knows Mac struggles with the back and forth nature of his recovery, that on his bad days it helps to have someone around who knows PTSD well, and can offer some coping strategies as well. 

She takes her own ice cream cone and hands Gina a ten. “Keep the change,” she says, smiling. 

“Thank you, Riley.” Gina smiles back. “You two enjoy that now, before it all melts.” She wipes her forehead theatrically. “Hot day like this, it’s a good thing you came early. I’ll probably sell out before noon.” 

Riley nods toward the street. “Think you can walk and eat at the same time?” She asks. “Otherwise we can find a bench.” 

Abina nods, then licks at at drop of melting ice cream sliding down the side of her cone. Her eyes widen at the sensation. “It’s so sweet! And cold!” she gasps.

“Yes to both of those,” Riley says with a chuckle. She licks her own cone, and watches Abina bite into the mound of cream on top of hers, then gasp and shake her head like a wet dog, frowning and grimacing. 

“What’s wrong?” Riley asks. “Freeze your teeth?” It always happens to her, she can’t bite ice cream or popsicles or anything cold. 

“My head!” Abina gasps. “What happened?”

“That’s brainfreeze,” Riley says with a giggle. “Now if Mac were here he’d go off on a rant about how it’s not  _ actually _ freezing your brain, and give us all the science gibberish, but...Jack says it’s brainfreeze, so  _ I _ say it’s brainfreeze. It’ll stop in a couple minutes,” She says, noticing Abina’s continued distress. “That’s why I just lick mine.” She takes a demonstrative lick of her own cone, enjoying the coolness on her tongue. Gina was right, the air is warm and muggy, pressing down and making her sweat even in a tank top and cutoff shorts. 

“It is green?” Abina asks.

“Yeah, it is.” Riley says. “Mint flavored. Want to try?”

“I can?” Abina asks. 

“Sure. We live in the same house, I don’t think sharing ice cream is going to infect us with any germs we don’t already have.” Riley chuckles, holding out the cone.

Abina takes a tentative lick, then wrinkles her face and shakes her head just like she did with the brainfreeze. “This one is not so good.”

Riley gasps exaggeratedly, pressing a hand dramatically to her heart. “I’m wounded! That’s my favorite kind!”

Abina giggles. “You like strange food, Riley.” 

“I mean...you’re not wrong.” Abina wouldn’t be the first person to tell Riley she has strange taste, literally. And she probably won’t be the last either.  _ But wait until she sees some of what Sam makes.  _ Her former roommate’s Australian cuisine gives even Riley pause occasionally.

“Okay, I guess you stick to yours, I’ll stick to mine.” Abina nods, licking at her own ice cream. “What do you think?”

“I like this one,” Abina says. “The nuts are crunchy, it’s fun!”

“You’ll have to try Mac’s favorite, Rocky Road, that has nuts too,” Riley says. 

“Is he okay?” Abina asks. “They hurt him, I saw.”

Riley glances at the bandage on her own arm from the bullet graze. “Yeah, he’s alright.”

“He seemed afraid. Like us when the men come...came.” Abina says softly. “Who hurt him?”

“Someone you don’t have to worry about,” Riley says. “He’s got us now, we’re family and we protect him just like we protect you, okay?” 

Abina nods. “He is lucky to have you.” She looks up at the buildings all around her. “Where are we going?”

“To see a friend,” Riley says. “I think you’ll like him.” She glances at the street signs. “It’s just about a block more.” She walks along, licking her ice cream and skipping over sidewalk cracks like she’s Abina’s age as well, until they get to a rather run-down looking little shop with “Ty’s Computer Parts-Resale and Repair” over the door. 

Riley’s known Tyree for over a decade, he’s the guy she got some of the parts to build her first really powerful custom rig from, back when he still sold out of a van, and picked through dumpsters for discarded phones and electronics that people didn’t care to dispose of correctly. 

“This is the best guy for secondhand electronics in L.A.,” Riley says. “I figured you wouldn’t want an off the shelf computer or anything, not even the ones from Phoenix. So…” She grins. “I figured letting you build your own was a much better investment.” 

She pushes open the door, and instead of a bell tinkling, the Darth Vader theme blasts out of a set of speakers. Ty looks up from behind the counter where he’s cracking an older model laptop to tear down. He’s still got the same afro of curly hair, and while Riley’s fairly sure the Baja hoodie he’s wearing isn’t the one he had years ago, it’s impossible to be sure. 

“Riley?” He asks. “Long time.” 

She shakes his hand. “Yeah, what’s it been...a year since I had to come in here last? Let’s just say my teammate is a little more respectful of my rig these days.” Actually she can’t fault Mac for the destruction of the one she had to replace last time, he did it to save their lives. Still, it was her best hardware, and replacing it hadn’t been easy. “This is Abina. Abina, this is Ty, he’s an old friend of mine.”

“Taking a new one under your wing?”  _ Like he did for me all those years ago. When I was a scared kid who didn’t trust any of the men in my life not to be just like Elwood.  _ And then Ty met her when they tried to scrounge the same junkyard. And he’d let her have what she came for, and told her who to get in touch with when and if she needed more.  _ He knew how to connect with me. _

“More or less.” Riley says. “But she’s no amateur when it comes to her computers.” 

Abina looks like a kid in a candy store. Riley wanders around the bins and crates and shelves with her, watching her pick through the heaps of old, broken-down electronics for the parts she prefers. 

“She reminds me of you at that age,” Ty says, walking up beside them to set a handful of wifi chips in a small basket like the kind Riley sees fries come in at Jack’s favorite diner.  _ I should bring Mac down here, he’d love all the repurposed stuff. And maybe he could find enough things that he’d keep his hands off Jack’s phone...and the GTO... for a week or two.  _

He could probably use the distractions. Riley knows he’s been getting more of his memories back, in fragments and chunks, and since he doesn’t have very many really  _ good _ memories, most of what that means is more nightmares. More monsters in his head.  _ It would have been nice for him if amnesia really meant a clean slate, but that’s not how it works. _

“Okay, I think I have it all.” Abina stands up, her arms full of random pieces. “This is really good stuff.” She grins. “You find a lot of quality parts.”

“And you know exactly what you’re looking for,” Ty says with a grin. “That’s some fine gear you’re gonna have. Those are...well, if I was going to custom build another rig right now, I think most of that would be in mine.” Abina grins. “So where’d Riley find you? Forgive my asking, but...you don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“Ghana,” Abina answers. “Part of a program her think tank partnered with, helping the kids who work in the e-waste landfills. They gave me a scholarship to come study in America.” Riley nods her approval, Abina’s got their cover story memorized well.  _ At least our think tank cover means we can excuse some things as humanitarian causes. Which...it kind of was. We stopped an exploitative criminal using child labor, and helped get those kids safer lives. And Abina a new future. _

Riley pays for the parts, and then helps Abina get them all into a bag to carry with her. “Don’t be a stranger,” Ty says with a grin. 

“We won’t,” Riley chuckles. “Abina’s great at breaking down anything electronic, so...I might be bringing her here in self defense. Or at least in defense of my computers.”

“Well, I can always use the company,” Ty says with a grin. “And any extra hands.”

Abina smiles. “I think I would like that. It is...it is what I know.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Riley says. “You’re going to go big places, I know it. She wants to be a computer science major.” 

“Well, that sounds like a great idea to me,” Ty says. “Always like to see kids go do awesome things like that. You remember ol’ Ty when you’re winning the Nobel prize, alright?” He winks. “That’s what I told Riley, and then she went to work for the government, and she does stuff she can’t even talk to me about anymore.” He winks. “Still proud of her.” 

Riley grins as they walk out. “Where to next, Abina?”

“I think I’m ready to go home.”

“Okay,” Riley says with a smile. “Home it is.” She puts an arm around Abina’s shoulders. “I think this weather calls for air conditioned apartment and a  _ Star Wars _ marathon.”

“ _ Star Wars _ ?” Abina asks. 

“Jack will never forgive me if I don’t introduce you to the source of half his random movie quotes,” Riley says. “But he definitely won’t want us to watch  _ Die Hard _ without him.” 

Abina giggles. “Is that why Jack says weird things sometimes that don’t make sense?”

“Yeah. You’re about to understand exactly what he means about wookies and hyperdrives.” 

“Like hard drives?”

“Not even close. You sure you never saw anything about Star Wars on those computers?” Riley asks. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you.” 

“Maybe a little. It is fun to watch you.”

“Now I know how Jack feels when I pretend to forget his Bruce Willis movies.” She grins. “You are  _ definitely  _ going to fit right in here.” The sun beats down, bouncing off the pavement, the heat pressing down on them, but Riley has rarely felt more joyful.  _ We’re going home. _


	7. Desi+Mustang

**Post- 3.14 Father+Bride+Betrayal**

DETROIT, MICHIGAN

ABOUT FIFTY DEGREES COLDER THAN L.A.

The 1966 GT Fastback is still in the garage where she left it four and a half years ago.  _ When I said I’d be back in a year, at most.  _ Before the lure of one deep cover after another pulled her in.  _ It’s not that I didn’t want to come home. But the first one changed me so much. I felt like I was protecting everyone by staying away. Protecting them from the monster I’d become.  _

It took four days in the Afghan desert to prove to herself that she was still human. Still capable of feeling something, of caring about a life.  _ And it’s the ultimate irony that that’s what forced me to leave. Forced me to come back here. _

Desi pushes the doors to the salvage yard’s storage garage wide open, letting in a swirl of snow along with the crisp Michigan winter sunlight. She pulls the scarf around her neck a little tighter, but lets the flakes swirl into her face, barely resisting the urge to try and catch them on her tongue like a child. She’s missed the cold, sand always stung her skin in a totally different way than a midwestern blizzard.  _ Not like I’ll see much of it in L.A., but at least I’ll have a job there. _

She could work full time in the noodle shop here, like she did when she was in college in the summers.  _ Ba _ and  _ Má  _ would love having her back, and honestly there’s something she’ll never get tired of about stirring pots in the kitchen, surrounded by the familiar smells of  _ pho bo _ and  _ Bún Riêu _ . 

_ It was a good way to decompress for a few days. _ But Desi’s afraid her past will find her, sooner or later. She’s made so many enemies. She can’t bring them home to her family. 

The job offer in L.A., a ‘think tank’ that’s definitely not what it says it is, sounds like a good enough fresh start. She knows she’s lucky to have people in her corner, people willing to pull strings on her behalf.  _ No other agency would touch me, not after what I did. _ But she doesn’t regret it, either. Thanks to her, a family is together and safe, and that would be worth it even if they threw her in a black site and conveniently lost the key.

The slightly raw skin on her left shoulder rasps against her shirt as she moves.  _ Fresh ink that size takes a while to heal. _ She was all too happy to walk into the familiar tattoo shop as soon as she got home and ask Marco to cover up the blade and star emblem she’s had there for a year and a half.  _ I want to forget I was ever a part of that, even if it was all a lie.  _

The worst part of long term covers is the feeling of being tainted, of the memories of the things she’s done to keep living a lie.  _ For people like us, the end justifies the means. We do bad things to keep bad people from doing worse things, and somehow that makes us the good guys. _ Just another reason coming home feels wrong. Desi’s so used to living in a world of secrets and half truths. And if she came back to her family for good, there would only be more. She can never tell them about who she really is, what she’s really done.

_ I’ve pretended to be someone I’m not for far too long. _ And she was good at it. Her record (up until this massive blot on it) speaks for itself.  _ One of the best long term cover CIA agents in the agency history.  _ The problem is, Desi isn’t sure she knows how to be herself anymore. Even worse, she doesn’t know who the real Desi Nguyen  _ is. _ She’s been so many people, with so many names and dreams and thoughts and voices and plans. So many hobbies and habits change from cover to cover, until she’s passably good at fifteen forms of martial arts, knows eighteen languages at least conversationally, and can write in five different styles, two with her left, three with her right hand. 

Just like the layers of ink covering her skin, always added on, never getting less, she’s built herself a persona, even when she’s not undercover.  _ I’ve taken all the things I thought made me impressive, and made everyone see the perfect agent.  _ But she knew all along that’s not who she was, and now she’s proved it. 

She whips the dust cover off her car and stands back, smiling. 

The deep blue metal-flake paint is clean, not even a speck of dust under the sheet spread over it. She reaches under the front bumper and pulls out a key duct-taped there, and opens the driver’s door. Inside, the car smells like leather polish, lemongrass, and curry from the time she spilled carry-out on the carpet. She’s soaped and steam cleaned it, and the stain is all but invisible, but the smell has never disappeared.  _ Or maybe it has, but I still remember. _

“Found the keys,” her cousin, Quyen, calls, stepping through the door.  _ He goes by Quinn to strangers, and that’s the name on the gate here, but family still uses his traditional name. _ She spent a lot of time in this exact building as a high-schooler, working with Quyen and her uncle breaking down junker cars into parts they could re-sell or use to repair the vehicles in better condition. The Mustang itself came through the front gate on a wrecker the summer Desi was fifteen.  _ I literally built my first car from the ground up, even though she definitely wasn’t road ready until well after my sixteenth birthday.  _

Quyen spins the keys around his finger, and Desi hears the tiny eagle medallion on the ring clink against the key. “I drove her last month right before the blizzard. Got the tires and oil changed too, last summer, sticker’s on the window. And I put a new battery in this fall.” 

“Thanks for keeping her running for me.” Desi digs in her pocket for her wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t have to…”   
“Yes, I do. Storage rent for three and a half years, any service you got done on her, and…” She pulls out a few bills. “How bout five hundred as a downpayment and five hundred more when I get to L.A. and start working?”

Quyen shuffles his steel toe boots on the concrete, and Desi hears a screw or bolt or washer make contact with them and go skittering off into a dark corner. “More than fair. I don’t want to take your money, Dez.” 

“I know. And you know I’m gonna make you.” 

He nods, finally accepting the cash and tucking it in the pocket of his greasy coveralls. Desi takes the keys and tosses her duffel bag in the trunk. 

“You sure you can’t stay longer?”

“Not right now.” Desi says. “But...I’m not going to be gone so long this time. I promise.”

The engine turns over on the first try, and she wraps her fingers around the cold steering wheel, pulling out of the garage. She waves and watches Quyen in the rearview until he’s just a speck of green coverall against the white and grey and occasional fleck of colorful paint of the snow-covered junkyard. 

She’s well aware her car is earning her some strange looks on the road, most people leave their classics safe in a garage for the winter, instead of chancing their safety on the slick winter roads. But Desi is a certified pursuit driver, trained to handle any moving vehicle known to man, and better yet, she’s a Michigan native. Years of practice and experience on flooded, icy, and pothole infested roads are possibly the reason she impressed her CIA driving instructor.  _ I’ve driven in war-torn countries with less damage than a Michigan rural road in winter.  _

The engine purr and the hum of tires on asphalt is calming. Desi watches the road ahead and lets her mind wander. Not too far, not back to fire and sand and blood and explosions that shake the ground, but to the man she’s on her way to see. Her big brother, or as close to that as she’s ever going to have. Jack Dalton. 

She pulls a cassette tape out of the console and pushes it into the player. _ So sue me, I’m old school. _ She could easily download all the songs in high quality on her phone, but there’s something about the scratchy audio of the tape deck as Bob Seger’s voice fills the car that takes her back to her college days, the Ann Arbor commutes in city traffic every weekend, made bearable by the familiar favorite music she still knows all the words to. 

“So now sweet sixteen's turned thirty-one; You get to feelin' weary when the work day's done…” 

She taps her fingers on the steering wheel, and it feels like the years and the missions and the covers fall away, and she’s the same starry-eyed, big dreams girl rocking to the beat in a sea of exhaust and horns honking and buildings reaching for the clouds.  _ Maybe the real Desi is still in here somewhere. I just have to go far enough back to find her.  _ Whoever existed before she was broken apart and remade, put back together as so many different people, none of them feels real.  _ I want that back. I want to feel real again.  _

“Come back, baby, Rock and Roll never forgets…”


	8. Nicknames+Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little darker than the others I posted so far, which is why the tags have been updated...

###  Nicknames+Memories

**Sometime Post-3.11**

Mac jumps when Matty opens the War Room door and calls out to where she asked him to wait in the hall while she discussed something with Thornton. 

“Blondie, in here.”

_ Blondie. _ It doesn’t normally bother Mac that much. But last night was  _ bad. _ His nightmares woke Jack up, which they haven’t done since the first night after the desert. 

He’s not sure what triggered them, really. Maybe the reminder that even though Murdoc wasn’t behind this particular disaster, the monster is out there somewhere, biding his time for some reason, waiting to take what Mac is all too aware he wants. Maybe it’s the lingering head injury, making it harder to recognize the difference between fears and reality. Maybe it’s the trauma of what happened to him and Jack only weeks ago. Or maybe it’s everything that’s been piling on lately, all hitting at once. 

He’d dreamed of being back in prison, of being cornered and trapped, at the mercy of hungry eyes and cruel hands. And the horrible things they called him are still echoing in his ears. 

One of the men used to call him Blondie. Even after Mac got a fellow inmate to cut his hair Marcos hadn’t let the nickname go. The man had an obsession with Mac, not nearly on the level of Murdoc, but he’d gotten his hands on Mac whenever he could. He’d made a lot of deals with the cartels to get them to offer him Mac in exchange, and he’d been one of the worst people Mac was traded to. 

And he was part of Mac’s nightmare only hours ago. Which means the minute Matty says “Blondie”, Mac is forcibly dragged back into his worst memories. 

He stumbles, catching himself on the War Room glass. He blinks, because for a second it felt more like wet slick shower tile than the auto frosting glass. He takes a deep breath, but the floor was just cleaned, and the industrial detergent has too similar a smell to prison cleaners. He swallows hard.

“Mac?” Matty’s voice feels like it’s coming through a tunnel. “MacGyver!” 

“Hey, hey, kiddo, what’s wrong?” Jack’s hands are warm and solid on Mac’s shoulders. “Is it your head? Do you need medical?”

Mac shakes his head, leaning forward into Jack. He smells like gunpowder and leather oil, and those mean safety. He swallows hard, and tries to get his emotions under control. “I-I…”

“What do you need, kiddo?”

Mac blinks and takes another deep, shaky breath. “Just need to breathe for a second. Flashback,” He whispers, so only Jack can hear.

“Damn, kid. You want to go home?”

Mac shrugs. He  _ wants _ to, he really wants to, but that would mean giving in, letting the monsters in his head beat him. He’s not okay with that. He can go in that office and give Matty his weekly report on what he’s doing in the lab. It’s not like it’s even a field debrief. He’ll be okay.

He takes a step forward and stumbles. His head aches a little, but worse is the vertigo feeling of being trapped somewhere between memory and reality. The world is spinning a little, colors blurring and shifting. He squeezes his eyes closed, then opens them again.

“No, you’re definitely not okay,” Jack says gently, and then Mac feels himself being scooped up in Jack’s arms. “We’re going to medical, make sure you don’t have any more issues no one caught.”

Mac doesn’t feel like protesting, he already knows that it’s futile anyway. He lets Jack carry him down to medical, lets Dr. Grey poke and prod and check his eyes and his blood pressure. 

“It looks like an anxiety attack to me,” She finally says. 

“He said it was a flashback,” Jack says. “Mac, do you know what triggered it? So we can try not to let it happen again?”

Mac bites his lip. Explaining means telling  _ Matty _ , and he’s not sure he can do that. She’ll be horrified that she’s been unintentionally calling him the same thing his tormentors in prison did. And more than that, he’s not sure he can bear to admit how broken he is. That just a name is enough to make him spiral like this.

“If you don’t know, that’s okay,” Jack says.

Mac takes a deep breath. He doesn’t like the smell of medical much more than the industrial cleaners, but at least it doesn’t remind him so much of prison. He glances up at Jack, and he wonders if there are tears in his eyes, given the sad expression on Jack’s face when he looks back at Mac. 

“He should probably go home for the day,” Dr. Grey says. “Mac, I know you’re going to argue, but...this on top of the healing head injury isn’t a good combination. If you aggravate this situation, you’ll be benched even longer.” 

Mac nods. He knows the drill by now. And he knows Dr. Grey is right. He lets Jack help him to the car and take him home, then settle him on the couch with some cocoa, a blanket, Mickey, and a documentary about oil drilling in Montana. Mac doesnt have the heart to tell him he’s already seen this one, that he knows about the water pockets and the endangered lizards and the nature sanctuary. 

When Jack sits down next to him, Mac leans into the comfort, trying to ignore how hot chocolate slops out of his mug over his shaking hands. Jack starts to card a hand through Mac’s hair, and normally that’s one of the most comforting gestures he uses on Mac, but today...after the nightmares, and ‘blondie’...Mac can’t handle it. He flinches, and more cocoa spills over, spattering the blanket and burning his hand a little. He hisses and bites his lip.

“Easy, kiddo.” Jack gently takes the mug from Mac and sets it on the coffee table. Mac cradles his burnt hand against his chest, even though it doesn’t really hurt all that much. He doesn’t really know how he feels right now, his stomach is churning and it feels like his blood is buzzing in his veins. He knows this is anxiety, but he also doesn’t know what to do about it. Because the only way to make it stop is to tell Jack...and everyone else...the truth. And that’s even more anxiety inducing. It’s a vicious cycle, and he can’t make it stop, and he can’t think, and he can’t breathe…

“Whoa hoss. Look at me.” Jack is holding his shoulders, and Mac is suddenly aware of Mickey’s cold damp nose pressed against his neck, and the soft whines as the dog paws at his leg. “It’s okay. You’re home, you’re safe.”

Mac swallows a sob.  _ I’m pathetic. _ He knows he’s safe, but some part of his damaged mind doesn’t, and probably never will. He’s known this is going to be part of his life, he’s no stranger to how PTSD works, especially not after a few years in the clandestine services, but for some reason it’s especially crushing today.  _ I’m never going to be normal. They took that away from me. _ The men in prison, and Murdoc, and Griggs…

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Mickey starts licking his cheeks. He holds the dog close, and looks up at Jack. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Jack asks, shaking his head. “This happens to all of us. Last week it was me freaking out because a blanket got caught around my ankle and I felt like I was still chained up.”

Mac nods, he remembers. Since living with Jack, he’s become much more aware of the man’s vulnerabilities and fears. And Jack is willing to let him into that part of his life, to let Mac see the broken pieces of who he is.

“It was...Matty called me Blondie,” Mac says.

Jack, to his credit, says nothing. And doesn’t touch Mac’s hair again, settling for resting his hand on Mac’s shoulder instead.

“One of the guys in prison…” Mac swallows. He still hates talking about it, even now, even with Jack. He wishes he could wipe that part of his past out of existence. The least that disastrous amnesia could have done was take away his memory of that trauma. But sadly, things never work out in a way that’s kind. He guesses he should know better than to expect they will. “He called me that.”

“Oh kiddo.” Mac can tell Jack is suddenly reliving every single time Matty has ever called Mac blondie. Over the past two years she’s been with Phoenix. “Are you...are you gonna tell her?”

“I don’t know.” Mac’s lived with the occasional use of the nickname for two years, he’s pretty sure once he recovers more fully from the disastrous Las Vegas trip, he’ll be able to deal with it again. 

“And I’m not gonna pressure you to,” Jack says gently. “It’s up to you.”

Mac nods. He thinks he probably should say something. Jack always wants to know what is safe to do and what isn’t, and he knows Mac’s tolerance for some things like touch or hair stroking changes on a daily basis.

Mac trusts Jack enough to share with him, but it’s been harder to tell the same things to Matty. He isn’t sure why, It’s not like the start of his friendship with Jack was any less stressful and chaotic. But Matty is his boss. Her job is to see the big picture and protect all her agents, not just him. And he’s afraid if he tells her how fragile he is, she might decide he’s a liability and permanently pull him from the field. 

He settles a little deeper into Jack’s warm grip. He doesn’t have to decide right now. He can have a few more hours of peace before he has to think about it again. He knows putting it off only means he’ll have to agonize over the choice when he gets there, but it feels better not to have to think about it right now. 

Jack is warm and comforting, and Mac  _ definitely _ didn’t sleep well last night. The fact that he’s already seen the documentary once means it isn’t really holding his attention, and he drifts further and further into sleep.

_ “Always a pleasure to see you, Blondie.” Marcos’s hand runs through Mac’s newly shorter hair. Mac shudders, but he already knows there’s nothing he can do. Marcos made a big drug pickup for La Ola on his last work detail and everyone knows there’s only one thing he wants in return.  _

_ If Mac fights back or refuses, that’s probably going to be the last straw for the cartel. And if they turn on him, he’s dead. He’s not sure if it’s better to try and stay alive, at this point, not even sure if this  _ is _ a life, or if he’s already dead and this is hell. Not that it matters. He’s trapped here for an eternity anyway. Life without parole. He might as well be in hell, because no one is ever going to get him out of here. No one cares. Not about a terrorist. _

_ “We haven’t seen each other in a while,” Marcos adds. “I’ve missed you.” Mac shivers, and then feels the emotionless numbness start to set in. It’s the only way to survive this life. _

_ Chemical formulas for every variant of carbon-based molecule flick through his head on repeat as Marco strips him and shoves him onto the bunk. Physics equations make the pain a distant annoyance, an occasional interruption to calculating the volume of an object by displacement. _

_ Suddenly, he’s being flipped over onto his back, and the unfamiliarity shakes him out of his head and back into the painful reality. Marcos doesn’t like to do anything with him afterward, he just leaves. _

_ But it’s not Marcos’s face looking down at him. It’s Murdoc. Mac thrashes, trying to get out from underneath him, but the monster just laughs. “Still trying to escape me, Blondie?” The nickname sounds wrong and somehow even worse coming from Murdoc, who as far as Mac recalls never used it. “You should know better by now. You never will.” _

_ And then his hand is around Mac’s neck, choking him, pushing down, harder and harder… _

Mac wakes up with a gasped, hoarse cry, scrambling and shoving. He hears a confused bark as something heavy moves off him, and he takes a shaky breath, trying to collect what remains of his sanity.

He’s safe, he’s at home. He fell asleep on the couch with Jack and Mickey. Prison is long gone, and he’s never going back. 

He looks up to see Jack’s worried face, the brown eyes confused and sympathetic. “You alright kiddo?”

Mac just nods weakly. He is now. Now that his head isn’t lost somewhere in the murky, miserable past. 

“I need to tell her,” he whispers softly. He can’t keep going like this, that part of his life is over. And he wants to leave  _ all _ the pieces of it in the past. Including the nicknames. 

Still, when it comes right down to it, Mac’s not sure he can go through with it. He’s standing outside the War Room, two days after the disastrous flashback, and there are at least a dozen malformed paperclips on the floor around his tapping foot, none of them a recognizable shape. 

“It’s okay, Mac,” Jack says gently. “Matty will understand.”

Mac knows she will. But he’s not sure he can bear to see her pity. Most of the time, now, it seems like his team has more or less pushed the memory that he was in prison once to the back of their minds, the dark recesses of awareness but not permanent consciousness. He knows telling Matty about this will make her acutely conscious of the while situation all over again, and he’s not sure he wants to be the ex-con in her eyes again, no matter how good the reason. 

But he also knows if he ever wants to be able to put all those horrible experiences in one of those forgotten dusty corners, he needs to be triggered less often, and this nickname is a trigger he can at least mostly control.

He squares his shoulders and walks into the War Room. Matty looks up when he opens the door.

“What’s going on, Mac?”

He’s glad she didn’t call him Blondie. That would probably have crushed his already fragile resolve right then and there. 

“It’s…I have to talk to you.”

“Mac, I promise you, we aren’t going to permanently take you out of the field unless there’s a medical reason to do it.”

He nods. “It’s not…it’s not really that.” The reassurance is nice, although given how bad the hand tremors have been lately he’s not altogether sure that that won’t be enough to keep him benched. But that’s a problem for another time. “It’s about what happened the other day, in the hall.”

“I thought Dr. Grey cleared it as an anxiety flare up?” Matty says.

“She did. But…it’s because you called me Blondie.” Mac swallows hard. “I never told you one of the men who…borrowed me in prison, he used to call me that.” 

“Oh Mac. Mac, I am so sorry.” There’s a physical pain in her eyes when he manages to meet them. “All this time…” He hears what she doesn’t say.  _ You should have told me sooner. _ He also knows why she doesn’t say it. She knows telling her now was hard enough. “I’ll never do it again, Mac, I promise.”

“And if you slip up, I won’t hold it against you,” he says with a weak attempt at a smile. “It’s probably a force of habit by now.”

She nods. “I understand why you didn’t say anything before, Mac. And I’ll do my best to avoid ever reminding you of that again. If I slip, you have permission to call me “Matty the Hun” to my face to remind me.” There’s a small uncertain mile on her face, as if she’s testing how well Jack’s method of bringing Mac out of bad places in his head with humor is going to work for her. “Is there anything else I need to avoid?”

“Not that you ever say it, but Murdoc called me ‘boy scout’ a lot.” 

“Duly noted.”

The rest he has to tell the others on an individual basis. The way Riley calls Jill’s foster kitten pictures ‘sweet things’. The way Derek, from the lab, curses at his computer and calls it a ‘son of a bitch’ in Spanish when it stops working halfway through algorithm processing. Little things that are holding him back, trapping him in that time. He has to let go and move on, and a few less reminders would help.

He’s already done the scariest one. The rest should be easy.

He turns toward where Jack is standing in the door, ready to take him out for the breakfast he couldn’t force down before this, he promised pancakes after Mac was done telling Matty everything. Mac realizes he’s suddenly starving. He hasn’t eaten properly since the disaster in the hallway. 

“Oh, and Mac?” Matty says gently. He turns around to face her. “That took a lot of courage, and I’m proud of you.”

He hasn’t cried during this whole thing, but now, two tears slip down his cheeks, trickling salty into the corners of his mouth. He wipes them away and gives her a weak smile. “Thanks, Matty.”


	9. Lock+Storm

###  Lock+Storm

**Extended opening to 3.09 - Specimen 234+PAPR+Outbreak**

Mac shivers. The wind is blowing harder, whipping chilly rain into his face and drenching his clothes. He wants to be somewhere warm and dry right now. But to get there he has to get out of this cage.

Jack’s warmth next to him is comforting. No matter the weather, Jack seems to be a perpetual human space heater. Even in Siberia he felt warm when Mac curled up against him. He wonders if it’s his imagination that Jack is always so warm.

He shifts position slightly, and nearly bumps into the walls of the cage.  _ No. No, you can’t shake the bars. _ He grimaces and forces himself to fall the other way, landing in the mud with a sucking thud.  _ Well, these clothes are pretty much ruined.  _

He pulls his hand out of the mud, wiping it on his pants. He stops, staring at the mud and then at the explosives wired to the cage.  _ It’s a long shot...but given that we can’t shake the bars… _

He jumps to his feet and rushes over to get the best look he can at the trigger mechanism.

“Oh, hey, I know that look,” Jack says. “You got a plan, don’t you, bud?”

Mac just nods, focusing on the small gap he can see in the housing of the trigger. He gestures vaguely behind him with his hand, to the deteriorating skeleton they’ve already raided. “Jack, I need you to hand me that parietal bone.”

“Which one’s that?” Jack asks.

“The big curved one that’s part of a skull.” Mac tries not to think about why this skeleton would  _ have  _ such a fragmented skull in the first place.  _ Wonder if last time they put someone in here the bomb did go off. _ Or maybe they decided this wasn’t a quick enough way to get rid of their problems and came back and finished it. Or maybe the guy was already dead when they threw him in here…

_ Stop. Don’t think about that. Focus.  _

“What, are we digging our way out of this?” Jack asks as Mac scoops up some of the dirt near the edge of the cage.

“Not exactly.” Mac would consider it, if they weren’t in a mountainous region that has bedrock under the first few inches of soil. 

“This kind of detonator is contact based. See those little pieces of metal there?” Mac points down, head tilted so he’s just avoiding pressing against the bars. “That’s why I can’t shake the cage. It’ll bring those points into contact with the detonator plate. But if I fill in the space between them…” 

“We’ll be able to stop them from touching.” Jack grins.

“I would have tried tucking a piece of cloth in there, but I can’t risk touching anything around that device, my fingers might be too much movement for it. But pouring something in there that will .” Mac carefully tips up the shallow edge of the bone. “Granted, this dirt is all damp, which means it might conduct electricity from the prongs to the plate anyway.” He frowns. “Guess we just have to hope this is a pressure system and not an electrical one.”

“Well, the rain would have set it off by now if it was electrical, right?” Jack says.

“Actually, rainwater is fairly pure, especially in a remote location like this. Pure water isn’t a good conductor of electricity. It actually needs impurities in it.” 

“That’s actually not reassuring at all, dude.” Jack shakes his head. “Well, I guess we’re about to find out.”

Mac holds his breath as the dirt spills out and down into the gap. If he’s wrong, he probably won’t live long enough to worry about it. 

He breathes a tiny sigh of relief when the dirt starts to clog the gap. “I need a thin stick or something to pack it…” He stops, Jack is already tucking one into his hand. Mac dimly realizes his hand is trembling. He stopped feeling cold...he doesn’t know how long ago. None of this is good. They need to get out of here and get to shelter fast. 

He forces the dirt down until there’s a thick layer of it between the two pieces of the detonator. He 

“Okay, this wire is pretty weak. Now that we don’t have to worry about jarring it, I think I can get us outta here,” Jack says. He makes a show of cracking his knuckles, then starts working at the edges of the wire. 

Mac helps as much as he can, but his fingers feel clumsy and frozen. He doesn’t even notice when the wire cuts him, until he sees the blood left on the metal when he pulls his hand away. 

“Careful, there,” Jack says, glancing at Mac’s wounded hand. Mac nods, glancing around for anything they can use to speed this up. He attaches his belt the best he can to the loose part of the wire fencing and pulls. The added leverage rips the metal free of its rusting attachments to the cage frame, opening up a gap big enough for him and Jack to slip out. 

“Which way?” Jack asks. Mac frowns. They were brought up here in the back of a canvas-covered truck, so his sense of direction and location is pretty shot. But he does know that a lot of these areas have some level of civilization around sources of running water. Rivers and streams are their best bet, and he thinks they crossed a bridge with the truck about a mile before they reached this spot. He points in the direction the nearly obliterated tire treads lead. “That way.” 

“Sounds good.”

“Once we find the river, if we follow it, hopefully we’ll find a house or something.” 

At least the trees form a sort of windbreak when they leave the clearing and enter the forest. Mac wraps his arms around himself, shivering. He wishes he had a jacket. He’s freezing and it’s only getting colder out here. He doesn’t want to spend another night in a mountain storm. This reminds him too much of being alone in the Carpathians after that bad parachute landing. At least this time he has Jack with him…

When they reach the river, Jack turns downhill. Mac doesn’t argue. He trusts Jack to know what he’s planning. 

They trudge along the stony edge of the river for what feels like hours, as the sky darkens and the clouds thicken. Finally, around a bend of the river, a plume of smoke comes into view. Mac feels like crying with relief. Smoke means fire and fire means warmth. 

The source of the smoke is a small shack on the banks of the river, that looks like the next big storm might knock it over. Several brown cattle are grazing in the front yard, and a handful of chickens scatter when they walk up, clucking and flapping their wings. 

When Jack knocks on the door, a man with a grizzled brown and silver beard looks out, squinting into the storm. Behind him, Mac can see a woman wiping red, chapped hands on a stained apron. 

Jack doesn’t speak Slovenian, but between hand gestures and some Italian, he manages to make himself understood enough to get them inside. Mac wonders what exactly he told the farm couple. He thinks he heard the Italian for ‘son’. He wouldn’t be surprised; Jack’s made it a habit to refer to Mac as his own child for covers he makes up on the fly.  _ Probably so when he fusses over me or otherwise acts parental, it doesn’t raise eyebrows.  _

The farmer’s wife disappears into the back of the house and then returns with an armful of dry clothing when Mac and Jack step inside. Jack thanks her, taking the clothes, and she gestures for them to change in the small kitchen next to a stove that is giving off warmth that feels absolutely heavenly.

Jack pulls the shabby curtain that divides the room (which apparently doubles as a bathing and laundry room given the size of the tin tub in the corner) from the main room, and then begins to shed his own clothes. Mac peels off his soggy, mud-smeared shirt, then reaches for a towel hanging next to what looks like a washbasin. He dips one end of it in the water and scrubs dirt off his arms and chest before pulling the clean shirt from the pile over his head. The cloth is scratchy but  _ dry, _ and the too-large shirt covers his chilled hands and falls halfway down his thighs. He starts to tug off his jeans, then flinches when the soaked material sticks on the edges of the graze on his calf.  _ They didn’t miss us completely. _ He still feels guilty for the stumble that let them get caught.  _ I told Jack I was fine, there wasn’t really anything we could do about it anyway.  _ He hadn’t thought it was all that bad. And he was so cold earlier that it was numbing most of the pain. But the pull of cloth against it  _ hurts. _

“You alright there?” Mac sighs. Jack must have seen him struggling. He just shakes his head and points to where he’s already managed to work the material away from the gash. 

“Damn, kid. Why didn’t you tell me they hurt you?” Jack asks, his fingers probing the wound gently.

“Didn’t know they did, for a while. And there wasn’t much we could do about it in that cage anyway.” The gash is shallow, not even bleeding a lot. Mac had honestly kind of forgotten about its existence. 

“Well, you got it pretty dirty, but other than that it doesn’t look too bad,” Jack says. “Not bleeding enough to clean itself out, though.”

Mac knows what that means. He bites his lip, this is going to hurt no matter how gentle Jack is about it. He watches Jack fill a kettle with water and then set it over the fire, boiling to sterilize it more than likely. He adds a small amount of salt and then swishes the water around inside, setting the kettle down again and kneeling beside Mac. 

“I got them to agree to let us stay here until tomorrow,” Jack says. “In the morning they’ll give us directions to the closest town, and as far as I understand from them it does have a working phone, so we’ll be able to get in touch with Phoenix and get exfil.” 

Mac nods. He stares out the window at the rain while Jack works at cleaning his leg, focusing on the patterns the drops make on the glass. 

Jack is finished quickly, and he wraps Mac’s leg gently before standing up. “I guess we should let these folks have their kitchen back so they can make their dinner, huh?” He says. Mac nods and stands up, slipping the dry pants over his bandaged leg. Jack slips an arm under his shoulder to lead him back out to a chair, and while Mac doesn’t actually need the assistance, he appreciates it. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how much Jack cares...but he thinks he could try. 


	10. Arrest+Overnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor mentions of attempted non-con for this chapter...

###  Arrest+Overnight

**Missing Scene from 3.16**

Jack shifts on the hard bench in the holding cell, feeling Mac trembling where he’s pressed against Jack’s side. As of the moment, their only cellmates are a guy who’s wearing a dirty jacket and rambling about aliens and mind control, a guy with a busted nose and bloody knuckles who doesn’t seem interested in anything going on, and a kid who’s wearing a oversized hoodie and smells strongly of cigarette smoke and possibly cocaine. Probably a dealer, given the coat that can hide his merchandise and is much too warm for a humid L.A. evening.

At the moment, none of them pose a threat to Mac, at least not that Jack considers immediate. But that could easily change. He’s watching all of them, and the hallway outside the cell as well. Just in case.

He wonders how Riley and Diane are faring. He’s not particularly worried about Riley, she’s held her own in worse places, although no one’s infallible and her luck very well could run out any time. Diane…Jack knows from her stories that this wouldn’t be her first night spent in a holding cell, she was an avid protester as a college kid and got herself arrested more than once during demonstrations. But that’s an awful lot different than being held at gunpoint by members of a fully tacked SWAT team. Jack wonders how much of this Diane can take. This is the third time she’s been spending time with Jack and his family and watched things go to hell. He knows she’s strong, stronger than most people would give her credit for. But he hates watching her get caught up in the chaos that his job brings him.

If this is even about the job. Jack can’t help but think it’s something far more personal. This raid was specifically aimed at Mac. And whether whoever set them up knows it or not, this was one of the cruelest things they could have done.

Mac hasn’t stopped shivering since the cops put him and Jack in this cell. Jack wonders if he’s remembering Lima, and the disaster there. Jack is going to do his best to make sure nothing like that happens again. Whatever he has to do to ensure that. 

The door clangs open, and Jack jumps, going immediately into defensive mode, ready to assess the threat of their new arrival. He feels Mac shake harder, but the kid’s arm slides out from where it’s tucked into Jack’s, allowing him more mobility to land a hit if that’s what this comes to. Jack hates that the kid has to be deprived of the comfort of holding onto him, but they have to be prepared.

But instead of a drunk or a troublemaker, the man walking in is unescorted by any officers, and is wearing an only slightly rumpled suit. And Jack recognizes him immediately. Apparently Mac does too. 

“Detective Greer?” Mac asks.

“What is it this time, son?” The detective says, shaking his head as he glances into the cell. When he sees Jack, he blinks and frowns, like that’s an unexpected development. “Soon as I saw the name MacGyver on the night’s sheet, I knew something was going on.” 

“We don’t even know,” Jack offers, he doesn’t think Mac will be able to speak enough to explain. “SWAT team just showed up at the house and crashed family game night.” 

“Family, huh?” Greer says. “Didn’t realize that’s what the legal profession is calling their clients these days. And I didn’t see any Roger Preston listed on that sheet.”

Jack sighs. Greer did look surprised to see him. “Jack Dalton. I’m Mac’s adoptive father.”

He can almost  _ see _ the thoughts rushing through Greer’s head. Greer has known Jack isn’t who he claimed to be since he showed up in full tac gear to bust Mac out last Christmas. But there had been tacit agreement that things were complicated and that little incident should be left to fade from everyone’s minds entirely. But now that Jack’s also been brought in, and his records are on file here, there’s no more pretending. 

_ He probably forgot my name in all the excitement of that particular little mess.  _ Jack isn’t surprised that the man didn’t immediately recognize his name as the weird guy who busted into the station with full tactical armaments.  _ It’s not nearly as memorable as ‘MacGyver’, and he spent a year and a half calling me Roger Preston, can’t be an easy habit to shake. _

“What are you doin’ here?” Jack asks. 

“Well, see, my house is being fumigated right now, and they told me to wait twenty-four hours before I go back.” Greer settles down in the hard chair in the corner of the room. “Still got ten of those to kill.” 

“And you want to spend them hanging around a holding cell?” Mac asks, then sneezes.  _ Yeah, I can think of a lot of places I’d rather be too, kiddo. _ The cigarette smoke is overpowering, and now something smells like vomit. Jack’s avoiding looking in the direction of the alien conspiracy guy. 

“Last time I left you alone, you broke out of a pair of handcuffs with a paperclip.” Greer says, raising an eyebrow at Mac. “I think we’ll avoid another such incident tonight. I’m sure when the boys in blue come to get you, they’d like to see that you’re still where they left you.”

Jack knows an excuse when he hears one.  _ He can’t say it out loud, or in front of the rest of these guys, but he’s sticking around to make sure Mac gets through the night unmolested. He didn’t know anyone Mac could trust was in here with him, because he wouldn’t recognize the name Jack Dalton. So he came down here to check on the kid.  _

Jack suddenly feels a lot more charitable toward the detective.  _ He’s had to do his job, every time Mac’s been brought in here, but he cares. _ He knows what happened to the kid, and he’s doing the best he can to make sure it doesn’t happen again, at least not on his watch. 

_ Mac has a way of getting under your skin if you spend enough time around him, making you want to look out for him. _ Jack glances over at the kid. He’s still shaking a little, but not as much, and he’s starting to look sleepy. 

“Hey, you want to try and get some sleep?” Jack asks.

Mac shrugs. 

“You can at least lay down if you want.” Jack moves to the end of the bench, and Mac lays down, slowly, curled up so that his long legs don’t hang halfway off the end of it. Jack smiles and rests a hand on Mac’s shoulder as the kid lays his head down on Jack’s legs. 

He’s not sure Mac will be able to really sleep, what with the stress and the location. He’s not sure Mac even wants to, given the nightmares he might have as soon as he fully drifts off, that he’d probably prefer didn’t become common knowledge to everyone else in this holding cell and the detective sitting watchdog outside. But at least Jack can let him be comfortable. Even if the kid can’t really sleep, he can get a little rest. 

It doesn’t last long. Not ten minutes later the door opens again, and this time it is a new cellmate being brought in. Jack narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like the look of the guy. He’s not particularly scruffy, in fact, he looks like most of the time he comes off as a decently respectable guy.  _ Great, the sleazy type. _ Jack would rather take his chances with the sort who don’t bother with hiding their illegal tendencies. Guys like this…in his experience they’re the absolute worst. 

The man walks directly up to Mac and Jack as soon as he’s put into the cell, glaring at them both. Although the glare is tinged with something wrong when it’s turned on Mac, who’s blinking drowsily, hair falling partway over his eyes as he looks up. 

“This seat’s taken,” Jack says. 

“What, is that your bench?” The man asks. “There’d be space enough on there if the kid would sit up.”

“He’s tired,” Jack says. It’s not that he’s going to start a fight over letting Mac lay down, it’s not really worth it and he knows Mac doesn’t care enough for that. But this guy looks threatening in the wrong way, and Jack doesn’t want him anywhere near Mac. Not even if Jack’s sitting between them as a buffer. 

“This ain’t the Hilton. He can sleep later.” The man moves forward, and Jack prepares to start something. But he doesn’t need to. 

“If you’re looking for a bench, there’s plenty of room over there.” Greer points to where the space beside the guy with bloody knuckles is conspicuously unoccupied. The man turns around to glare, then realizes the person he’s frowning at is a cop. He shuffles over to the bench and sits down on the far end of it, as distant from the scowling brawler as possible. 

Jack gives the detective a grateful nod, and the man sits down again, pulling something out of his pocket. Jack squints, trying to make out what it is. When the harsh fluorescents catch the edge of it with a metallic gleam, Jack smiles. The man is bending a paperclip. 

It happens almost before Jack can think about it. One minute everything is fairly calm. The next, he’s being shoved aside and someone’s hands are reaching for Mac. Jack grabs the guy’s arm, clearly he didn’t count on facing someone with Delta Force reflexes, and slams him into the wall so hard he hears the man’s nose and maybe he collarbone break.

He dimly registers that someone’s on a radio calling for backup in the holding room. The next minute the door opens, and Greer steps in beside him, pushing the man back against the wall when he tries to throw off Jack’s hold.

When the officers rush in, Greer turns to them. “Put this guy somewhere by himself,” He snaps, shoving the brute into the officers’ hands. “Tried to molest one of the guys in there.” He frowns. “Broke it up before anything got nasty, but get him outta here before I feel like roughing him up some more.” 

The officers nod, clearly used to dealing with Greer’s somewhat grouchy and snappish demeanour, because there’s no comment on the man’s angry outburst. Jack shares a glance with the detective before he goes back to his chair. He made sure Jack wouldn’t be accused of being a problem because he fought with the guy, by taking the responsibility solely on himself.  _ That way I don’t get taken away too. _ Jack shivers at the thought of this being Lima all over again. 

Jack doesn’t sleep. He can’t. The door opens eight more times over the course of the night, three of which are guys that set off Jack’s alarm bells. One more requires Greer’s interference as well, and the man is hauled off to an interrogation room not long after. Jack makes a mental note to find some way to thank the detective for his help.

Mac is a shaken ball of nerves by the time the sun has come up and the door opens for the ninth time. He’s pretty much given up on any attempt to look like he’s holding it together, and has basically curled into a ball against Jack, trying to take up as little space as possible. 

It’s just an officer walking in, and Jack lets himself relax slightly. He wonders if the guy’s here to pull someone for interrogation. 

The officer glances inside the holding cell, opening the door. “Dalton, MacGyver, you’re free to go. Looks like someone made a mistake.”

Jack bites back a cutting remark and just nods, helping Mac to his feet. Both of them are stiff after the long night. Mac stumbles slightly, and Jack catches him, helping him walk out of the cell. 

Greer stands up from his chair, groaning.  _ Night wasn’t easy on him either, but he stuck it out.  _ Jack’s gained more than a grudging respect for the detective over the long night. He’s a good man, who wants to try and atone for what happened to a good kid who walked through the doors of his interrogation room. 

“Thanks,” Mac says softly, Jack knows it’s taking a lot for him to even speak up right now. 

“Try and stay out of trouble, kid,” Greer says, shaking his head. “You know, some of this grey is your fault.”

“Yeah, side effects of spending too much time around Mac,” Jack says with a grin, gesturing to his own head. “Another couple years, and this is all gonna be white, I swear.” The smile fades and he lets himself slide back into seriousness. “Thanks for sticking around.”

“Don’t mention it.” Greer says with a shrug. “Just doing my job.”

Jack nods.  _ Unlike some of these guys, he doesn’t act like his responsibility ends when the suspect is behind bars. _ He wonders if Greer feels guilty that Mac was wrongly sentenced, that he spent two years in the living hell that was that supermax.  _ He had no way of knowing. Mac pled guilty, the case seemed open and shut. _ Jack can’t blame the man for making the same mistake he did when he first met Mac. For believing the worst of a kid with a messy past and a penchant for disaster. 

“Nice to see he’s got you.” Greer says. “He’s a good kid. Just needed someone stable in his life. Just a shame he didn’t find you sooner.”

Jack nods. He wishes that too. But neither of them can change the past. All they can do is do the best they can going forward.  _ And we’re both trying to figure out how to do that. _


	11. Cairo+Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two deleted scenes in one week? Yes, because it's the fandom's Cairo Week 2020, and when I started planning my response to the prompt of the day, "Family", it ended up being yet another deleted scene for the Wunderkind universe. So here it is!

### Cairo+Curse

**Post the 1.21 Cigar Cutter cold open**

Jack didn’t think his day could get worse than being tossed out a window into a bazaar stand like he’s an extra in an Indiana Jones movie, and then being broken up with, over the phone, via his teammate. 

Apparently it can. Because watching these guys grab Riley and shove her to the floor, tying her hands behind her with zipties and then strapping them both to a pole in the middle of the smuggling warehouse, is a lot worse. 

The only upside is that the bomb beeping in the crate in front of them is a dud. Jack made sure of that. The trigger mechanism is currently in ten pieces on the floor over by the cat statue box, courtesy of his boot. Once the timer clicks down to zero, there will be a little sizzle and then the bomb will just sit there. It would be a great joke on these terrorists if Jack and Riley could just get out of here before that timer runs out. 

_Sure, we won’t get blown up in a flaming inferno, but...it might be preferable to whatever these guys are gonna do to us when they find out we screwed them over._ He’s really rather not be around to find out, but these zipties are tight, and instead of being held up with I-beams that might be useful to cut through the restraints, this building is so old it’s supported by stone pillars. 

His fumbling fingers hit Riley’s, and it gives him an idea. He reaches for her wrists and starts trying to remove her zipties. His fingernails are blunt, making it hard to push down the little tab, but he thinks he can get it. If he can get her hands free, then maybe they’ll have the element of surprise.

He wishes he knew how much time was on the countdown. He watches the men standing at attention around the crate, their faces almost blank-looking. _It’s a strange thing watching people who plan to die._ Not that Jack’s never had the gun to his head and thought this is it, this is his card getting punched for the last time, but...there’s something eerie about seeing suicide bombers. Like they’re already gone, and they’re just a shell walking around. A shell with one mission. _It’s like being in a zombie movie but it’s real life. And arguably scarier, cause these guys look normal. Until this._ There’s no shuffling walk, no half-grunted animalistic groans of ‘Hurrg...Brainsss’. Just people like anyone you could pass on the street. 

It seems like Riley’s picked up on what he’s doing, since she’s stopped struggling and tugging at her hands. _That was making things a lot harder._ He thinks he’s almost got it…

And then there’s a long, loud beep...and an anticlimactic click. 

Jack would laugh if the situation wasn’t so desperate. The men snap out of their blank haze and bend over the bomb, examining the wires and timer. Suddenly, the leader turns around, glaring at the two of them in fury. “Who disarmed this?” The man practically shrieks. 

Jack clears his throat. “I did.” _If they want to be pissed, they can be pissed at me._ This guy needs someone to vent his rage on, and better Jack than Riley. 

“You?” The man asks.

“What, is that so hard to believe? I was an EOD overwatch for a few years, learned a little something watching the nerds run around playing with things that go boom.” He shrugs as much as he can with his arms tied behind him.

Farhad turns to his men and says something in a voice too low for Jack to pick it up, even if it was a language he could speak. Two of the men step forward, pulling out knives. _Oh, gonna carve me up?_ One of them steps behind him and Jack feels the cold metal against the skin of his hand. 

_Cut off fingers or something, for using them to thwart your plans? How original._

Jack tenses for the pain, but the only thing that happens is the ropes around his chest loosening and the zipties falling loose. He pulls his hands in front of him, rubbing his wrists. 

“Fix it. Or she dies.” He turns around to see Farhad holding Riley in front of him, a gun jammed under her chin. Her eyes are wide, but she’s shaking her head as much as she can. 

“I’m telling you, I can’t repair this.” Jack insists. “That detonator is smashed, there’s no way…”

“Apparently you need a bit more persuasion?” Farhad laughs, and then throws Riley to the floor. The next moment he’s flipped her on her back and his meaty hands are around her neck.

Riley gasps, choking, struggling with the zipties behind her back, kicking and thrashing. But she’s fighting a losing battle and Jack can see it. She already had the breath knocked out of her when she hit the floor, and she didn’t have time to recover. 

_Save your breath, stop fighting, go limp!_ He wants to scream at her, to remind her of what they’re trained to do to take assailants off guard. But she’s clearly panicking and survival instinct has taken over. 

“I told you there’s nothing I can do!” Jack shouts. _I can’t fix their bomb and even if I could that’s not what she would want._ He’s trying desperately to think of something, anything to salvage this situation. 

The zipties, weakened by his work on them, snap, and Riley’s hands come up to wrap themselves around Farhad’s wrists. Her fingers look so thin and fragile, like nothing but bone compared to the man’s brute strength. Jack’s watched those hands save their lives countless times, a keystroke here and the push of a button there getting their asses out alive. But this time, she’s out of her element. 

Maybe if the ties had snapped earlier, she could have gotten enough leverage on the man’s hands to free herself. But it’s too late. Jack watches her struggles weakening, and he can’t take this anymore. 

“Just stop! I’ll try!”

“See, I knew you would be reasonable.” Farhad says. “It just required the right amount of _pressure._ ” He gives Riley’s throat a parting squeeze and stands up. 

Jack waits for her to cough and roll over, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even move. He can’t see if her chest is rising and falling. _No, no, no._ Now there’s another timer counting down in his head. _Four minutes without oxygen until brain damage begins._ He probably has three minutes and twenty seconds left.

He hurries toward the place where he left the remains of the bomb’s trigger mechanism, one of the goons following him with a gun. He bends down and collects the fragments, but as he straightens up he pushes the lid off the crate beside him, pulls out one of the faux stone cat statues, and smashes it into his guard’s face.

Cat statues turn out to be incredibly effective weaponry. The guard goes down with a gurgle and thud, and Jack grabs his gun, turning it on Farhad and the others without a second thought. _Well, you all were prepared to die today anyway, weren’t you._

He isn’t sure all his shots are fatal, but they don’t have to be. As soon as the last of the terrorists is incapacitated, Jack races back and kneels beside Riley, hand held over her mouth to check for breath. There’s nothing, and her chest isn’t moving.

He bends down, pinches her nose, and presses his lips over hers, forcing in the oxygen her body needs and isn’t able to get for itself.

He pulls back after a moment, feeling a little lightheaded himself with the combination of forcing out his own breath and the fear and shock of seeing his partner laying on the floor so limp and still. _It’s so unlike Riley._

The Riley he knows can’t handle long briefings without a stick of gum in her mouth or her necklace in her fingers. Jack cringes at the sight of where the bumps of the choker she always wears have left almost black impressions in her skin, as he bends over and gives her yet another breath. 

Her lipstick is coating his mouth now, the taste of wax and chemicals and blackberry stinging his tongue. Under the smeared purple, her lips look so blue and lifeless. Jack shudders, hoping it’s just stain from the lipstick but knowing better anyway. 

“Come on, Riley, breathe for me.” 

He counts down the seconds as he counts the time between breaths. He feels for her phone in her pocket and calls their emergency standby team, even though there’s probably already local medics and authorities inbound after hearing the gunshots. In between one breath and the next, he blurts out the problem.

“My partner’s down, she was choked forcefully, not breathing.” He manages. 

“Stand by, medical team en route. Is there a pulse?”

“Yes, administering rescue breaths. It’s been three minutes and ten seconds,” Jack says. _They won’t get here fast enough._

He watches a single tear splash onto Riley’s dusty cheek as he bends over her again. _Come on, fight. Breathe._

And then Riley’s chest rises and falls spasmodically, and she coughs harshly, thrashing and pulling away from him. 

“That’s my girl, breathe, it’s okay.” Jack rocks back onto his heels, sighing in relief but still reaching out a hand to rest it on Riley’s shoulder as she coughs. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be alright.”

It’s not much longer before sirens scream up. Jack is so grateful to see an ambulance that he doesn’t even argue when the police officers take him into custody. Patty will straighten everything out, especially since he already called a team in. 

It takes a few hours for both the legal red tape and Riley to be cleared by the hospital, but finally, they’re boarding the jet for takeoff. Riley was advised not to fly given her recent breathing trauma, but she finally got the okay as long as she agreed to keep a tank of supplemental oxygen on hand and use it at the first signs of trouble breathing. 

Jack settles her in a seat and then starts to walk away to get the oxygen tank out of the supply compartment. Riley stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Jack…” Her voice is low and hoarse, and her forehead crinkles like she’s in pain just trying to get the words out.

“Hey, it’s ok baby girl. I’m not going far.”

“Thank you,” She whispers. 

“Baby girl, I would give you the last breath in my lungs and the last blood in my body to keep you alive, you hear me?” He knows her biological dad messed her up, he’s seen the few faint scars and worse, the effects of the mental ones. The way she expects to be ignored at best, punished at worst. The way she thinks of herself as the problem. The way she assumes she owes someone something for helping her. “Because you’re my family, and that’s what family does.” He ruffles his fingers through her messy hair and walks off to find the oxygen.

When he comes back, she’s fallen asleep.


	12. Video Tapes+Vigilantes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently everything I've thought of to write for Cairo Week has become a deleted scene, so hang on for the ride!

### Video Tapes+Vigilantes

**Pre Series**

“Hold still, Mac.” Bozer insists. “This is going to smudge if you don’t stop fidgeting.”

“It tickles.” Mac says, clearly trying to keep a laugh out of his voice.

“Well, maybe next time you should try and keep the cartel goons from bruising you up in the ticklish spots,” Bozer hisses quietly so Mama doesn’t hear him. _Actually I’d prefer you kept them from bruising you up at all._ He doesn’t like watching his best friend crawl through the bedroom window wincing and grimacing every morning. 

“Sure, next time I’ll ask them to avoid my face. I’m sure they’ll listen.”

“Tell them you have a scary best friend whose films you star in and if they damage your face, I _will_ come for them with every prop sword I own.” 

Mac really laughs this time. Full on bending over and tears in his eyes. Probably at the mental image of Bozer chasing the entire force of La Ola _Sicarios_ with his fake broadsword for that epically failed attempt to remake ‘Braveheart”. _What? When you have a best friend with a name as distinctly Scottish as Angus MacGyver you have to at least attempt it._ Unfortunately, Mac’s name does not mean he has an innate ability to replicate a Scottish accent or wield a broadsword, and Deja’s plaid ‘prep-school’ skirt was a really poor substitute for a kilt. “That is a grand total of one, Boze.”

“They don’t have to know that.” Bozer shrugs. “But seriously, Mac, maybe I should start coming with you.” 

“You have night classes,” Mac says. Like that settles things.

“So do you!” Bozer says. “That’s not an excuse.”

“Mama already lost Jerry. How is she gonna cope if something happens to you?” Mac sighs. “Boze, it’s too dangerous.”

“You think something happening to you wouldn’t destroy her too?” Bozer asks. “You’re family, Mac. I know you have a hard time accepting you belong, after how royally screwed your childhood was, but this is your family. We care about you just as much as if you’d been born a Bozer. Okay?” It hurts that after all this time Mac still thinks of himself as an outsider. That he still acts like he doesn’t really have a place in this family outside of his status as ‘Wilt’s friend’. 

Mac looks at him with those unfair golden-retriever-puppy-eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs at his face, smearing the makeup. Bozer sighs.

“Now I have to put that all back. We need to get moving, or the park is going to be too full for this shoot to work.” Bozer really wants to capture the outdoor scenes with a minimum of other people around. After all, this is supposed to be a post-apocalyptic film about the last survivors of a natural disaster. But a bunch of people walking around in the background with dogs on leashes and earbuds in will definitely ruin the effect of a solitary survivor alone with his thoughts.

 _Apparently I’ve started writing roles for him that capture his personality._ Sometimes Bozer thinks Mac sees himself as an isolated hermit. Like he doesn’t matter to anyone and no one would miss him if he vanished completely. 

_How bad was his home life that this is what it did to him?_ Mac doesn’t talk about his dad. Like, at all. But Bozer’s heard the nightmares. At first he thought James was a classic abusive father. Beatings, maybe fists or a belt buckle, Mac had a few scars Bozer had seen in the school locker room after gym. Mac claimed they were from some minor ‘accidents’, but Bozer is _not_ convinced.

But some of the things Mac has said in his dreams don’t sound like he’s asking not to be hit. It sounds more like he’s asking his father to _notice_ him. You wouldn’t ask someone who only ever beat you to pay attention to you. 

He’s not surprised Mac thinks of himself as expendable. As background noise. Because to all appearances, that’s what his father treated him like. And damage done over a lifetime isn’t something that can be undone in a couple years. They were doing well until the whole thing with Jerry splintered them. Mama has retreated into herself, Deja is distancing from all of them, and Bozer feels like it’s fallen on his shoulders to help Mac feel like he belongs.

Which is why he keeps dragging Mac into his video shoots. He could probably ask anyone from his class, but he wants Mac to feel included and important in his life. _I know it makes him feel useful. And while I hate that he has to feel that way, I also know that it’s important for him. And if I want him to feel less worried about fitting in here, then I need to make sure I start by reassuring him._

“Okay, looks good.” Bozer says, finishing brushing on the makeup. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Mac stifles a yawn. He wasn’t out as late as usual last night, but the bruises more than made up for that. Bozer thinks Mac came back because he realized he was in no shape to keep fighting. 

“You okay to do this?”

“I am.” Mac says, giving him a smile. “As long as you buy coffee on the way.”

“You got it.” Bozer stuffs his wallet in his jeans and grabs the car keys off his dresser. “We’ll swing by Amara’s on the way and get you some caffeine.” 

Mac follows him down the stairs. The limp he’s had since last night is so much more pronounced. Sleeping on the strained muscles probably stiffened it. Bozer sighs. _Mac, you have to take care of yourself._ He feels guilty for not insisting Mac at least put something warm on that leg. _But he was so tired, he looked like he was going to fall over if he didn’t get into bed immediately._

The truth is, Bozer doesn’t really know how to help Mac. He can clean and bandage wounds, hide bruises, make masks, and invent cover stories. But the minute Mac steps out that window, Bozer can’t do a single thing to protect him. He just has to sit at home and wait. _I feel like Lois Lane waiting for Superman, sort of._

“I want to come with you,” Bozer says. It just kind of...falls out, before he has the chance to think of what he’s saying.

“You can’t,” Mac insists. _I don’t have to tell him what I mean, he knows._

“Why? Because it’s dangerous? How are you more expendable than I am?” Bozer asks as he climbs in the drivers’ seat and buckles his seatbelt. 

“Bozer, I can fight. You can inspire. What you’re doing is important. Telling stories that make people believe in the better sides of themselves.” Mac gives him a sidelong glance as they pull out of the driveway. “You’re going to tell stories that inspire kids to grow up to be more than their circumstances. That make them want to choose the good instead of just what seems easy.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit. I write b-grade sci fi and horror stuff.” Bozer shrugs. “I don’t think it’s gonna change the world.”

“You don’t know that,” Mac says. “You’re selling yourself short.”

“I think you’re more likely to change the world, Mr. I can do nuclear physics in my head,” Bozer says. “Seriously. You should be getting a degree, a doctorate, a Nobel or something. All I’m gonna do is tell stories.”

“I am getting a degree, Bozer.” Mac shrugs. 

“Yeah, two classes a semester at a time,” Bozer replies. “Mac, you could be doing so much better. You could have gone to MIT or CalTech or something.”

“I couldn’t leave you guys.” _And you probably didn’t want to leave this life._ Bozer has the feeling Mac, for all his self-disparagement, does think he’s making a difference. Doing something that _means_ something. Which is why Bozer wants to be part of it. 

“Someday I’m going to write a movie about you,” Bozer says. “I mean, as long as you’re willing to sign over the rights.”

Mac chuckles. “Ha, like anyone wants to listen to the story of someone named Angus MacGyver. Just that would put them to sleep.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t use your real name!” Bozer insists. “But seriously. People dig vigilante stuff. The everyman hero and all that. I feel like I’m living with the best story ever.” He gives Mac a grin. “Can you imagine how cool that would be? A hero who saves the world by using his brain and whatever happens to be lying around. Who carries a Swiss Army knife instead of a gun.” He can see it now. _Yes, this is definitely script material in the making. Although I’m not really seeing film, this would be an incredible idea for a TV series. Maybe that’ll be my big break._

“I’m not that important, Bozer.” Mac drums his fingers on the dashboard, tapping out a staccato rhythm. “I’m not a hero.”

“You’ve helped dozens if not hundreds of people. How does that not make you a hero?”

“I can’t stop them.” Mac leans forward, sighing. “For every cartel stash I find, for every thug I take off the streets, there’s a hundred more. I’m barely making a dent. I stop one of their bombs and three more go off in the time it took me to disarm that one.” 

“You think you have to solve every single problem in the whole world to be a hero?” Bozer asks. _Actually he probably does._ Bozer gets the feeling that Mac’s father taught him anything less than perfection was unacceptable. _He feels like a failure because he can’t do everything._

“There’s the turn for the cafe,” Mac says. _Way to change the subject._

“I wasn’t going to miss it,” Bozer says petulantly. _Actually I probably would have. I was so lost in my head._

He doesn’t say anything until he’s parked in the lot outside Amara’s Cafe. “Mac, listen to me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep watching you disappear and not know if you’re ever gonna come back home.” He swallows hard. “I’m worried about you. Ever since Pena…”

“That’s exactly why you can’t come.” Mac says. He’s fidgeting with one of the camera lenses in his lap, probably the one that stopped extending properly last week. He promised he’d fix it, those aren’t cheap and Bozer can’t exactly afford a new one. “I can’t do what I do if I’m worried about something happening to you. I know it’s hard to stay home and wait, but trust me, Bozer, please, I’m safer if I’m alone.” 

Bozer wants to argue. But the truth is, he thinks Mac might be right. Bozer can take care of himself, there’s no question about that. You don’t survive to twenty-two in the underbelly of L.A. without being able to defend yourself. But he knows that as long as he’s with Mac, Mac’s attention would be split. Half on what he’s doing, half on Bozer’s safety. _Maybe instead of keeping him alive I’d get him killed._

“Okay. I get it. But Mac, you have to promise me you’re going to be careful. Because no matter what you think, you are not expendable.” He reaches over the console, brushing a hand over Mac’s fingers, glancing at the reddened marks where it looks like he singed them on something hot. “Who else am I going to find who’s willing to put up with my overbearing director’s persona?”

The laughter shatters the tension in the car, and when he returns with the coffee, Mac has fixed the telephoto lens and it’s sitting on the console. Bozer hands him his coffee, tucking his own in the cupholder, and drives off toward the park. Maybe all he can do is give Mac a reason to keep coming back, and that’s going to have to be enough.

_They also serve who only stand and wait._


	13. Wrist Brace+Crash Course

###  Wrist Brace+Crash Course

**Somewhere in Season 1**

“Riles, I’m sorry, this is gonna hurt.” Mac says. 

“I know.” She’s been trying not to move her hand too much since she punched that goon in the face, but she already knows her wrist is sprained. And pretty badly too.  _ It’s an improvement over when I had such bad form I broke my hand on my mom’s shitty boyfriend’s face, but still. Damn it that was my dominant hand. _ And they still have to break into a tech corporation’s secret offices and stop a virus from taking over the entire Chinese military satellite network.  _ No pressure, right? _

“I’ll wrap it, but I doubt you’re going to be able to use it any time soon,” Mac says.

“I know.” She watches him efficiently tear a sleeve from the guard’s uniform, slit it almost all the way up both sides to double the length, then wrap it around her arm to form an improvised wrist brace that should at least partially immobilize her hand. He slices off a piece of cardboard from some broken down boxes nearby and makes two identical strips, then holds them against the front and back of her hand and wraps some duct tape around them.

It’s not all that far off, Riley notices, from the braces she’s had put on her hands in medical.  _ He did that awfully fast, and very precisely. _ She wonders if he’s ever had to do it on himself, as a vigilante.  _ I can’t imagine how much that would suck.  _ She’s been lucky enough that most of the time when she’s needed major medical care and been down a hand she’s had Mom or Jack. Both, the time she lost her cool with the boyfriend. She can...well, count on one hand the amount of times she’s needed to bandage her own arm or splint her own fingers or hand. 

Jack appears around a corner just then, out of breath, red faced, and sweating, dropping the empty mag from his gun and slamming in a fresh one. When he sees the duct tape glimmering on Riley’s hand in the fluorescent light he frowns.

“What happened?”

“Sprained my wrist. But you should see the other guy,” Riley says, nodding toward the guard sprawled in a boneless heap on the floor.”

Jack sighs. “This is why you kids need to leave the punching to me. Both your hands are way too valuable to mess up on bad guys’ faces.”

“Well, excuse me for making sure Mac didn’t get stabbed while he was bypassing the security system.” Riley frowns. 

“Now how are you gonna get into their system before we run outta time?” Jack asks. “Last time I checked, one handed hacking was not very efficient.”

“I’m not going to hack in. Mac is.”

“Me?” Mac practically squeaks. “The only thing I’m good at with computers is tearing them apart.”

“I for once agree with him wholeheartedly,” Jack says. “Riley, did you hit  _ yourself _ in the head?”

She chooses to ignore that particular little sarcastic dig. “Mac, it’s not that hard. I’ll just talk you through it.” As long as she can see what’s going on, she can just tell him what to do. “Jack, see if you can keep those guys busy until we’re done.”

“What if I mess up?” Mac asks as they open the door to the server room. 

“You literally made a splint out of cardboard and duct tape. You can do this.” Riley says. “Okay, now we need to find the main server and jack in my rig. There should be a port labeled external input jack. You need to grab the ethernet connection cable from my backpack and…”

“Slow down?” Mac asks weakly. 

_ Ha, that’s how I felt when you were talking us through making that entire water pump system last week.  _ Admittedly, it had worked, and the result had stopped a fire from spreading to a warehouse full of fertilizer and fuel, but Riley hadn’t heard half the words Mac was using since her high school physics class.  _ The more nervous he gets the less normal-person words he uses. _

“Okay, well the ethernet cable is yellow, I color code all my stuff. That needs to go into my computer’s jack and then…” She glances at the server ports.  _ Thank goodness these guys decided to label their evil lair in English.  _ This job is vastly more complicated when they run into groups who speak languages she doesn’t. She thinks she knows basic technical terms in about thirty languages now. “This one.” None of this is overly complicated but she’s sure Mac is still panicking about being told he was going to have to hack something. 

She sets the computer down on a desk next to the server, and pulls out the chair for Mac, leaning over him as he sits down. “Okay, I’ll boot up my rig and enter my…”

“I know your passphrases,” Mac cuts her off.

“Right, you notice everything.” Riley smirks. “Good going. Okay, once you’re in there should be a window open that says External Connections. Open the one that is highlighted. We’re only jacked into one server so there should only be one highlighted option.” 

The screen instantly fills with lines of code scrolling past at impossible speeds. Mac jerks his hands back from the keyboard like he’s been burned. “What did I do?”

“That’s fine, we’re just seeing the coding for the firewalls. I have a program set up to auto-inspect the software it runs into. I don’t see the end result, like an error message page or a password entry screen, I see the code that makes it tick.” 

“Okay, so what do I need to do?”

“Well, since we’re in the code, now we can start trying to fool it.” Riley points to the screen, that string of commands looks familiar. “Delete that line.” 

“Just select and delete like a Word doc?”

“Yes, exactly.” Riley wonders what it’s like  _ not  _ know what you’re looking at on that screen. She can’t remember the time when she didn’t know.  _ Is this something like how Mac sees the world? Does his brain look at everyday items and break them down to their essential components, then add those back together to make what he needs? _ She’s never thought about his crazy ‘Mac’ thing having an actual logic process. It always looks like he just grabs things and starts throwing them together at random until something happens. But maybe in reality it’s a lot more like what she sees looking at all this code. Elements that work together, that make up familiar text and images and algorithms. Things that can be broken down and exploited to make new things, to solve problems.  _ I look at this screen and see a password hack. Mac looks at a dumpster and sees a bomb. Guess we’re more alike than we thought.  _ She sort of wishes she could see the world through his eyes. 

Well, maybe right now it would be more useful for  _ him _ to see the world through hers. “Okay, there’s the line. Select that part and change the value from “FALSE” to “TRUE”. That’s what entering the password would do.” 

“Okay, I’m in,” Mac says.

“No, Mac, you are not ‘in’. You are past the firewall that stops randos from hitting this thing with malware. Now we have to get past the internal security protocols.”

“It looks so fast when you do it,” Mac says, giving her pathetic puppy eyes. 

“Because I have years of experience. And besides, you were complaining about how slow I was literally  _ two days ago. _ ”

“Because we were being shot at!”

“How much longer are we talking guys?” Jack asks, his voice a strained whisper. “I am runnin’ out of ammo and hiding spots real quick.” 

“Well, I just have to get Mac past three more levels of security features so...sorry.” She turns back to Mac with a small shrug. “I think watching you try to hack is a lot more painful than a sprained wrist.” 

“Well, watching you try to assemble a peristaltic pump was pretty painful too.”

“Kids!” Jack says. “Enough bickering, more typing, okay?”

Mac sighs, pulling his hands back from the keyboard and wrapping his arms around himself for a second. Riley wonders if she’s putting too much pressure on him. If he’s going to panic or something at the thought that if he can’t do this a lot of people are going to die. 

“Mac, it’s okay,” She says.

“I know. Just cold in here.”  _ Actually it’s not. I mean, there’s an AC system going, but these servers are keeping the room at a steady seventy-two degrees even with the whole coolant system running. _ They’re not even sitting directly in the path of the fans. She frowns, but she full on startles when Mac reaches back to the keyboard and his hands leave red smears on the keys.

“Mac?!” She says, shutting her comms off before turning his hands over. Jack doesn’t need to hear this right now, she thinks he’s probably injured too. “Where is this blood coming from?” 

He gestures vaguely to his side, and she bends down, pulling aside his coat and using her phone’s flashlight to get a better look at the four inch gash steadily dripping crimson down Mac’s side and hip to the chair and now the floor as well. 

“Mac,  _ why _ didn’t you tell me that guy got a slash in?”   
“We couldn’t afford to both be hurt. Besides, I needed both hands free to type.”

“Not acknowledging that you’re hurt doesn’t mean you stop bleeding!” Riley is mildly horrified at Mac’s approach to injuries.  _ And I thought Jack’s, ‘it’s just a flesh wound, anything less than six inches qualifies’ was concerning. _ She can’t say she’s much  _ better _ about it, but at least she has the common courtesy to  _ inform _ her teammates that something is wrong.  _ Yes, I brush it off more often than I should, but I don’t outright hide it. _

She yanks off the button-down she’s wearing over her tank top, ignoring the sudden sear of pain when the sleeve catches on her wrist brace, and shoves it against Mac’s wound with her uninjured hand. “Here, I’ll put pressure on it,  _ you _ keep typing.” She turns on comms again as she does so. 

_ If this wasn’t a potentially life threatening situation this would be kinda funny, like one of those cartoons where two kids are trying to drive an old stick shift, one of them sitting in the seat working the steering wheel and the gearshift, and the other one doing clutch and brakes. _ Apparently Jack and his cousin Cody did in fact do that until Momma Dalton caught them.

She stifles the almost hysterical giggle threatening to creep out and keeps feeding him the next sets of keystrokes and walking him through bypassing the security measures.

“Okay, it’s doing the blinky box thing, now what?” Mac asks. 

_ The blinky box thing. We’re going to die. _ Riley pokes her head up over the edge of the desk to see the screen. “Okay Mac, that’s where you have to enter the master key.” She reaches into her pocket, ignoring the ache that’s trying to tell her not to use her bad hand, and pulls out the paper she wrote it down on. “Type in exactly what I tell you. Uppercase A. Lowercase f. Lowercase g. One, Five, Nine, Two, Seven. Uppercase U, lowercase c, Uppercase M, Six, Six, Three, One.”

“Got it.”

“Now hit enter.”

There’s a strange strident beeping sound that Riley has never known to mean anything good. “Mac?”

“Uh oh.”

“Uh oh? What’s uh-oh?” Jack asks, sounding very very concerned. 

“I did exactly what you said! It says Key Invalid. Ninety-minute lockout initiated.” 

“Damn it, these guys are good. They got into the root programming and changed the passkeys.” Riley sighs. “I didn’t want to use this, but I guess it’s time to go to plan B.” 

“Plan B?” Mac and Jack ask simultaneously. 

“Plan B, where we crash the network before they can get inside it and also we piss off the Chinese government forever, or at least Artemis37 does.” She fishes a small black flashdrive out of a pocket of her backpack. “This is a virus that I modified before we started this op, just in case...well, this happened.” She hands the drive to Mac. “Plug this into the USB port, the secure one. Then upload the file CREEPING DEATH to the external server option in the directory.”

“Creeping Death? You named your virus after a Metallica song?” Mac asks. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Oh, this isn’t even the best one. I have ENTER SANDMAN, which is a type of ransomware that just sends a network into permanent sleep mode until you shut it down, and SEEK&DESTROY that crawls through a system and deletes any files containing specified keywords.” 

“That’s my girl,” Jack says. 

“There, is that all I have to do?” Mac asks. His voice is starting to sound a little thready.  _ We need to medevac him fast.  _

“Yes, it is.” Riley gathers up her rig and cords and shoves everything back in her backpack. “Jack, we’re good, get out and meet us at exfil.” She ties the sleeves of her shirt around Mac’s waist to put as much pressure on his wound as she can. “Okay, come on, we have to run.”

Mac groans.

“I know. This is gonna hurt, but not nearly as much as it’s gonna hurt if we’re still in this building when my virus overloads the servers and they all catch fire.”

“What?”

“Just run!”


	14. Check Ins+Chocolate Cookies

###  Check Ins+Chocolate Cookies

**Post 1.11 Scissors**

When MacGyver walks into her office for their weekly evaluation, Penny holds out a plate. “Cookie?”

MacGyver glances at them. “What kind are these?”

“Chocolate chocolate chip.” Penny grins. “If you couldn’t tell I...uh, I like chocolate.” She’s learned that most of the time she has to eat almost all her own cookies. Most of her clients turn down her baking projects. She has to admit they do look a little...strange. Kind of scorched and a little bit mangled. Well, a lot mangled. 

_ So I can’t bake. _ She can make a mean tuna casserole and her pasta salads are to die for, but her cookies have never turned out no matter how many times she practices. But she keeps trying. Just like her clients, they’re a work in progress. No matter what, she never stops trying and hoping for the best.

And today, she’s worried about the client sitting across the desk from her. 

MacGyver is covered in bruises. Someone’s hidden the ones on his face with a layer of makeup, but she can see one peeking out the edge of his shirt collar, and a few more on his arms when his sleeves slide up as he shifts position in the chair.

When he reaches forward to take a cookie off the plate, the sleeves slide up even further, and Penny flinches. She’s seen some nasty things. But the dark patches on MacGyver’s pale skin turn her stomach in a frightened way. 

“I have to ask. How did you get these?” She takes his hand before he can pull all the way back, and gently rolls his wrist over. 

_ I know he’s up to...something.  _ While she wouldn’t breathe a word of this to anyone who might turn it against Mac, she knows something about all this is fishy. There’s something off about his legal team, and she wonders if Mac had something to do with the thwarted bombing in town a couple weeks ago.  _ Once a vigilante, always one? _

She wasn’t as worried when the bruises looked like something he could be getting parkouring around the city-although his ankle monitor never says he goes out of his usual routine, especially not at night, she’s well aware a resourceful person like Angus MacGyver could probably find a way around that. 

But these are handprints. Ringing his arms above the wrists, like someone grabbed him and shoved him against something. She’s never seen MacGyver act afraid of any of the people who have come into the office with him, but then again, he mostly just comes in with his housemate Bozer. Who seems far too benign to do something like this. 

“I...I’m taking self defense training,” MacGyver blurts out. 

“This looks like very hands on training to me.”

“Only way to learn how to defend myself from the real thing is to learn what that feels like in a controlled environment.” That sounds like something an instructor would tell him. But Penny took self defense martial arts in college as part of her criminal justice track, and she goes to a Muay Thai class every Wednesday night. And none of those leave her with bruises like this. Either he’s picked a really intense place to learn, or something else is happening.

“Can you tell me where you’re taking this training?” She asks. “I’d like to record that as part of your routines.”

MacGyver blinks owlishly, like he didn’t expect to be asked.  _ And now that I think about it, none of the points of stop on his regular routine are a gym or martial arts studio. _ She frowns, tapping her pencil on the paper. 

“Um...I…” He gives her a weak half smile. “I’m learning from my friend Jack. From work.”

_ Okay what? _ She hasn’t heard much about this ‘Jack’ other than that he lives somewhere that takes him past Mac’s house on his way to the think tank, which is why Mac usually rides with him; Mac seems hesitant to offer up too many more details about his co-worker. But “Jack” comes up enough in conversation that Penny assumed they were friends.  _ This _ does not look like something friends do to each other, and a bad feeling settles in the pit of her stomach.  _ What if Jack is the sort who decides to be friends with benefits? _ From what little description she’s gotten, he’s probably bigger and stronger than Mac, and she can’t help but feel a little skeptical. “Why is he teaching you?”

“He was in the military. Before he got the job with the think tank.” Mac looks agitated, fingers twisting a paperclip in his lap. 

“And he did this to you?” 

MacGyver’s eyes go wide. Hugely wide, bigger than human eyes should have a right to get, because he looks terrified and puppy-like and screw it, she’s not supposed to get attached to clients but she just wants him to be safe. And happy. And NOT in danger. 

“No!” He says, quick and sharp.

“Then who did?”

He swallows and looks up at her. “Someone on the street.”

She’s well aware that MacGyver’s parole conditions don’t include driving a car. He’s been either taking city transit to work or being driven there by Jack, according to the records. But often the monitor shows that he walks part of the way home. 

He doesn’t look away from her, but she can see the anxiety in his face. “I guess I looked like an easy target.” He bites his lip. “I was lucky someone came along, chased him off. And I...I don’t want it to happen again. So that’s why I’m trying to learn to fight back.”

“Next time something like this happens, please tell me right away,” Penny says. 

“I called J-Mr. Preston. Figured he’d call you.”

She files away several things at once.  _ A slip of the tongue. Preston’s first name is Roger. So why did he start with a J? Why was his lawyer his first call? And why is someone we barely hear about in these sessions teaching Mac self-defense?  _ Maybe Mac thought a criminal record would prevent him from getting into a legitimate class. 

“I’m going to call Preston and confirm this.” She picks up her phone and dials Preston’s number from her Rolodex,  _ so sue me, they’re cool and they make me feel like a reporter in some old tv show with sources and contacts, _ and waits until the man picks up. 

“You’ve reached Roger Preston, Attorney.” It sort of sounds like he’s somewhere on a street, in a car or something. She hears horns honking.

“Mr. Preston, this is Penny Parker, I’m the parole officer for your client…”

“Mac’s P.O. Yeah, he said he had a meeting today, is something wrong?”

“He has some suspicious injuries.”

“Bruises on the wrists right?” Preston says.  _ Moment of truth, did they get their stories straight? _ “He called me a few nights ago, said someone tried mugging him in an alley. Apparently someone came along and scared the perp off before he got anything. I told him he should probably get into some self-defense training. With taking public transit and walking around L.A. by himself, and all.” 

“Ok. Well, next time, Mr. Preston, I’d appreciate being informed of these incidents as soon as they take place.” 

“Absolutely. A minor slip there, it won’t happen again.” 

She hangs up and turns back to MacGyver. 

“Your stories match. But...I’m surprised Preston didn’t tell you to report this to police.”

“I…” MacGyver shudders. “Police stations and I don’t get along. Especially not right then. Didn’t think I could handle it.”  _ Oh. _

She suddenly has the feeling MacGyver is glossing over things for a very different reason than she thought at first.  _ Probably was less of a mugging, more of an assault. _ She has MacGyver’s prison file, and those repeated visits to the infirmary were for more than just attempted shankings in the yard. Not to mention the report she got when he was released from Bishop after that misunderstanding that temporarily put him back behind bars. 

_ No wonder he didn’t want to tell anyone and tried to lie to me about where he got these.  _ She can imagine that he just wanted to leave that part of his past behind bars for good, and got a rude reminder that terrible people exist on both sides of prison gates.  _ I was raised being told that I had to always watch my back, and honestly sometimes I’m sure I’m not going to come out the other side of my life in the city unscathed that way.  _ For Mac, prison was probably a horrible first lesson that no one is safe, not really. 

Everything else that feels strange about this situation pales in comparison to the gut-wrenching thought that if it hadn’t been for the assistance of a passing stranger, Mac could have been...well, she saw what he was like after Bishop. She never wants to see that haunted empty look in his eyes ever again.

She scribbles down the phone number of her Muay Thai instructor’s studio. “If you’re looking for a professional trainer, I’d be willing to put in a good word with my instructor.”

He takes the paper and tucks it in his pocket. “Thanks, but I...uh, I think I’ll stick with Jack.” 

“As long as that’s what works for you.” She glances at his face, he doesn’t look scared, he just looks tired and a little lost. He’s just trying to navigate a world that’s a lot more dangerous than most people want to believe, and he’s probably doing best with someone he at least knows.  _ This Jack is a familiar face. Not a random person throwing him around while trying to teach him how to fight back.  _ “Thank you for telling me about this. I hope it won’t happen again, but please keep me in the loop on anything like it, okay?” She reaches across the desk for his hand again, but this time not to inspect the bruises, just to remind him that some people won’t touch him with intent to harm.

“Are we done?” He asks. His voice is a little shaky, and she’s sure having to think about that traumatic event wasn’t great. 

“Yes we are. I’ll see you next week.” She holds out the cookie plate again. “I...kind of interrupted you. Would you still like one?”

He nods and takes one, breaking off a small piece and eating it.  _ If he’s like me, chocolate will at least start making things a little better. _ She smiles. “You can have one for the road too, not too many people take them.”

He takes it. “Thank you.” Mac stands up and walks out, and she hears him talking to someone in the hall, he didn’t close the door all the way behind him.

“You didn’t have to come up,” he says. 

“Sounds like we need to get some things squared away.” 

The door opens, and Penny looks up, a little startled to see Roger Preston standing there. 

“Mr. Preston?” 

“I was in the neighborhood. Heard you were worried about Mac.” He leans on the back of the chair MacGyver was occupying only moments ago. 

“I have to make sure he’s still in a safe environment.” Penny says. “Evidence of injury like that is a red flag, and he was being evasive about the cause.” She looks up at Preston. “My job doesn’t stop at making sure MacGyver doesn’t hurt anyone else. It includes making sure no one hurts him either.” 

Preston nods. “And I appreciate the concern for my client.” She’s having a hard time getting a read on him. Her psych minor is getting her nowhere with this man. He doesn’t show anything he doesn’t want to, which probably makes him very good at his job. Still, it makes her a little nervous. Sometimes she thinks no one connected to MacGyver is who they pretend to be. 

“I’d like to check into this ‘Jack’ more. All I have is his name and that he works with MacGyver.”

“I’ve already vetted him,” Preston says. “I would trust that man with Mac as much as I would trust myself with the kid.”

Something about that sounds downright  _ odd. _ It sounds almost like the man’s trying to tell her something. But in a roundabout way. She thinks of the slip Mac made earlier. 

_ “I called J...Mr. Preston.”  _

_ “I would trust that man with Mac as much as I would trust myself with the kid.” _

_ “He was in the military. Before.”  _

Preston is ex-military or she’ll eat her sneakers. The way the man carries himself is just like her dad. And he calls Mac ‘Mac’. Not MacGyver. There’s a level of personal familiarity between those two that is definitely not lawyer-client, but also doesn’t raise her hackles.  _ I don’t think he’s taking advantage of that kid. I think he’s genuinely trying to help.  _

“Thank you,” is all she says out loud. “MacGyver told me he’s taking self defense from him, I wanted to make sure it was all on the up and up, you know?”

Preston smiles a little at her choice of phrase, she knows it’s odd but her mom used to say it and it stuck. “Roger that,” he says, and then grins. 

_ Oh he did not just.  _ That was the worst pun in the history of terrible puns. Penny groans.  _ That was a dad joke so epically terrible it deserves reward. _

“Cookie?” She asks.

“Don’t mind if I do. Saw Mac wolfing one down in the hall, figure they gotta be good.” She grins as he takes two off the plate. “Tell me if you need anything else, we gotta bounce.”  _ We. Mac said Jack was picking him up from this meeting... _

Penny raises an eyebrow as the door closes behind Preston and she hears him talking to Mac in a muffled voice in the hall. She picks up a piece of paper from the desk and scribbles **_Jack=R.Preston?_** Then tucks it into her desk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac wasn’t actually lying. There was a guy, and a street. But the street was in Chile, not L.A., Mac was the one who stole something, and the guy sort of wanted it back. And Jack was the one who broke up the fight…


	15. Jack+Flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little idea was specifically requested by CatWingsAthena, and I've had it on the writing back burner for a while given that I got the request shortly before the whole pandemic, so it felt just a little insensitive to write. But since today's prompt was "In Sickness and in Health" and since we could probably all use a smile about some less severe illnesses, I wrote this one for today! (Just figured that an explanation was due with this chapter, given current events)

###  Jack+Flu

**Post 3.09 - Specimen 234+PAPR+Outbreak**

“I hade dis.” Jack grabs another kleenex from the box on the table, snatching it away from Mickey’s curious snuffling and blowing his nose.

Mac appears with a fresh box of kleenex and a blanket hot out of the dryer. He wraps the blanket around Jack’s shoulders, letting his hand pause on the bad one to rub it. That’s where the aches are worst right now. They’re spreading through Jack’s  _ bones, _ but that shoulder is always the worst. 

“Sorry,” Mac mumbles as his hands press warm against Jack’s arm.  _ Of course the kid thinks this is his fault.  _ Sure, Mac brought the flu home, but it’s hardly his fault that they got caught by pirates and shoved in a cage in a storm. That was mostly Jack’s fault. 

“Mac, it’s not your fault. Anyway, you were way worse.” Jack’s still not over the fever that spiked to 103 in the middle of the night and made him strongly consider rushing Mac right back to medical. 

“Still wish you weren’t sick.”

“Me too, but if I gotta be sick I have a pretty good nurse.”

“Learned from the best.” Mac rubs his hand over the back of Jack’s neck, and Jack leans forward with a sigh of relief as his headache eases a little. His kid’s nimble fingers are good at so much more than folding paperclips and disarming bombs. 

“Well, I learned everything I know from Momma,” Jack says, leaning into Mac’s hands and taking the deepest breaths he can without bringing on another coughing fit. “Bein’ sick was almost worth it to have her fussin’ over me.” 

“That sounds nice,” Mac says, and Jack suddenly feels like punching himself in the face.  _ You just found out the kid’s dad literally avoided him like he had the plague every time he got sick, and this is just rubbing in his face how much his childhood was messed up.  _

Jack wonders how his brain missed that part and why he has this habit of saying things that don’t end well. He tenses, and Mac must feel it, because his hands slow, rubbing deeper into Jack’s shoulders. 

“Sorry kid. That was…”

“It’s not your fault you had a good family and I didn’t.” Mac says quietly. “I don’t want you to tiptoe around me all the time because of it. I want to hear about the good things, okay?” His hands rest on Jack’s shoulders. “Besides, you’re making up for everything I missed out on now.” Jack thinks of the paperwork for the adoption tucked away in his desk and smiles. Mac doesn’t know yet, and Jack wants to surprise him.  _ I sure hope I’ll help fill that gap, kid.  _

Mac gives Jack’s shoulder a parting squeeze before reaching for Mickey’s empty water bowl. “Here, buddy, let’s get you some more water, huh? Jack, need anything from the kitchen?”

“No, I think I’m set.” Jack takes a sip of orange juice and sets his glass down again. It’s still more than half full. 

He leans back on the couch and listens to Mac in the kitchen, giving Mickey a running commentary of what he’s doing. He’s glad the kid’s voice lost that awful pained raspy sound it had for so long.  _ He didn’t talk much when it hurt, and it felt weird to see him so quiet. _

There’s a knock on the door, and Jack jumps, startled. 

“I’ll get it,” Mac says.

“Be careful,” Jack insists.  _ I don’t want any unpleasant surprises today.  _ He wouldn’t put it past Murdoc to  _ know _ that Jack’s not functioning at full capacity right now and decide it’s the perfect time to snatch Mac for round two. 

“Bozer?” Mac says, and Jack relaxes, hearing the door unlock and footsteps in the hallway. “What’s that?”

Bozer’s cheerful voice floats into the living room. “Leanna and I made my famous cure-all soup. Figured Jack needed to get better, not worse, and your cooking might give him food poisoning on top of the flu.”

Jack chuckles. Mac groans. 

“It’s not  _ that _ bad.”

“Yes, Mac, it  _ is _ that bad,” Bozer says. “Trust me. You cannot possibly mess this up,” Bozer continues. “All it needs is to be ladled into a mug and put in the microwave for two minutes.”

Jack hears the fridge door opening, and then Bozer’s gasp of surprise.  _ Yeah, me too. _

“Mac, why is everything in your fridge in plastic containers with duct tape labels?”

“Feverish Mac does some weird things,” Jack says. “It was more productive and safer to turn him loose on organizing the kitchen than let him into the garage.” He shrugs. “Didn’t want him to tear my GTO apart and then not remember how to put it back together.” 

“Oh.” Bozer moves several things around, judging by the thumps and clatter, and then closes the door again. “Okay, I managed to jam the soup in there with everything else.” He walks over to the couch, not standing too close, but close enough to talk to Jack without shouting. “You must be some kind of miracle worker, because I have never seen feverish  _ or _ normal Mac achieve such a level of neatness.”

“Well,” Jack says with a chuckle, “If you take a closer look at those labels you’ll see he just put chemical equations on them, instead of what’s actually in there.” 

“That  _ is _ what’s in there,” Mac insists. “See, the spaghetti is labeled with a starch molecule, and the pickles have the formula for vinegar.” 

“You’re a nerd, Mac. I mean that in the best way, but you’re a nerd,” Jack says, then forces himself to stop laughing before he coughs and contaminates Bozer any more than he already is. 

“Okay, I gotta run,” Bozer says. “Hope you’re feeling better soon, Jack.”

“Thanks Boze, me too. And thanks for the soup.”

Jack settles back and closes his eyes, he’s going to try and catch a little sleep before it’s time for lunch. Last night, between the fever and the residual stress of their last op, he kept having nightmares about Mac being infected with a zombie virus, and the kid just staring at him blankly with flat dead eyes, before lunging for his throat with a snarl.

He drifts off, but instead of being restful, now his dreams are plagued by Mac opening the door for Bozer only to find Murdoc on the other side, Jack laying there too weak to move, his arms and legs feeling like thousand pound weights, while Murdoc tortures Mac right in front of him. The monster laughing when he…

Jack wakes up with a startled gasp and begins coughing, bending forward and wrapping an arm around his ribs. 

“Jack, you okay?” Mac asks, hurrying over from whatever he’s been working on out on the deck. 

“Will be.” Jack doesn’t want to say more. Doesn’t want to have to tell Mac about that dream, about seeing those same concerned blue eyes so frightened and betrayed. About Mac begging Jack to help him while Murdoc…

“You ready for lunch?” Jack asks. He needs to get some food in his stomach and take the next round of medication for his fever. Maybe that will help take the edge off these dreams.

“Yeah. You want some of Bozer’s soup?” Mac asks. 

“Sure.” Jack settles back on the couch, pulling the blankets up tighter around him, even though he knows that won’t chase away the chill that has settled in his bones at just the thought of Murdoc’s sick, twisted smile and gloating stare. 

He’s drifting again when there’s a bang, and then a series of smaller pops. He leaps off the couch, suddenly alert, hand instinctively moving to where his gun is tucked under one of the throw pillows. Jack Dalton could be bleeding out and dying of a septic infection and he’d still be able to get on his feet to protect his people. 

“Mac!” He shouts, before realizing that there’s no more popping, there are no bullet holes anywhere, and instead of hiding in panic Mac is just…standing in the kitchen looking startled and a little lost. 

He opens the microwave door, and Jack steps up beside him, frowning at the mess of splatter inside.  _ Oh.  _ He tucks the gun back into the waistband of his pants. 

“He said I couldn’t mess it up.” Mac is staring at the microwave with a look of pathetic confusion. “I did exactly what he told me. There were even instructions on top of the container in sharpie.”

_ Yeah, he knows Mac. _

“Did you cover it?”

“No.” Mac’s eyes go wide. “Oh crap.” 

“It’s fine, it’s okay.” Jack says, reaching for a dishrag. “We’ll clean it up and start over, if I know him, Boze sent enough to feed an army.” 

“He did.” Mac says. “I’ll clean up, you can go sit down again.”

“Actually, I think the adrenaline rush cleared me out a little.”

“In that case, maybe I should blow something up on purpose?” Mac asks with a sly smile and a little wink.

“Only if you want to take me to the hospital for heart failure,” Jack says.  _ Mission accomplished.  _ Mac is now distracted and not beating himself up for making a mistake. Jack thinks it’s a good thing that the best way to distract Mac from falling into a black hole of his own thoughts is with humor.  _ I happen to be very good at that. It’s like we were supposed to fit together. _ Sure, they found each other a little late, but all they can do is go forward from here. And watching Mac smile, Jack thinks they’re off to a pretty good start. 

Once Jack has a properly heated mug of soup and Mac’s made himself a sandwich, both of them curl up on the couch. Mac settles against Jack’s shoulder, and Jack runs his free hand through Mac’s hair. The kid might be on the mend, but he still gets tired halfway through the day. 

“What do you wanna watch?” Mac asks, picking up the remote. “We could start marathoning  _ Star Wars _ again…”

“Actually Riley sent me an indie thing she thought we’d like,” Jack says. “Do you know how to hook up my computer to the TV so we can watch it off my email?”

“Sure.” Mac pokes around under the coffee table and pulls out a cord. 

“You kids are all such tech geniuses,” Jack says when Mac connects the cord to the computer and the screen, and Jack’s password screen shows up huge there.  _ That’s a little disorienting when you still have a low grade fever. _

“Actually there’s labels on all of these. All I had to do was connect to the HDMI-1 and then choose that as the input…”

“You sound  _ exactly _ like Riley when she tried to explain the same thing.” Jack swears he did exactly what she told him. But it definitely didn’t work. 

Jack opens up the video in his email and hits play. 

“Why did Riley send us a b-grade western?” Mac asks as a banjo song begins playing and the title  _ John Daley: Legend of Texas _ scrolls across the screen in a cliché font.

“I’m gonna tell Bozer you said that,” Jack chuckles, just as the words “Written and Directed by Wilt Bozer” appear next. 

“Oh  _ no. _ ” Mac groans, burying his face in the couch pillow.

“Oh, come on, I think this is his best one yet! Sit back and settle in for the tales of the daring small town sheriff John Daley. Protector of the innocent, defender of the law, and…adopter of wayward children. Apparently by the end of this he’s taken in the saloon keeper’s daughter and the local outlaw gunslinger’s son.” 

“Trust Bozer to make us a western,” Mac mumbles from the depths of the pillow. “How embarrassing is it going to be?”

“Actually, I think it’s pretty well done. I mean, I wish he’d cast Bruce Willis in my role, but I’m sure my man Bruce had prior commitments. On the whole, I think Oliver from exfil bears a pretty striking resemblance.” 

Mac glances up just a little. “Who am I?”

“Charlie in R&D.”

“What?” Mac looks up, eyes wide. “Charlie and I are nothing alike! I don’t have red hair…”

“Calm down, I was just messing with you. He got Andy from communications. And if you’d bothered to look at the screen during the credit roll instead of shoving your head in the sand over there, you would know that.” Jack chuckles. “It’s actually really good, I promise.” 

Mac curls up next to Jack again, just as the desert backdrop cuts away to a dusty street lined with wooden shacks. Jack smiles, ruffling Mac’s hair again and grinning.  _ This is great. _


	16. Ties+Trauma

### Ties+Trauma

**Post 3.02 Antony+Cleopatra+Footlights**

Jack’s always complained about what he calls ‘penguin ops’. The ones where the only thing they do the entire mission is stand around in suits and ties and gather intel or guard diplomats. Mac knows why Jack hates them, he detests being so inactive. 

_“The only redeeming quality of these things is the food, hoss. Sometimes.” Jack shrugs. “But there’s times when they don’t give you enough at these shindigs to keep a flea alive.”_

Mac’s seen Riley’s ‘fancy purse’, the one she takes to all these kind of events. She has a baby Glock and three candy bars inside at any given time. 

He’s trying to think about that so he doesn’t have to think about getting dressed. Jack let him have the hotel room’s shower first, insisting that Mac has a lot more hair that has to dry out than Jack does. But there’s also the strong possibility that if Jack went first he’d use up the hot water. Jack himself has been in the shower almost ten minutes at this point; Mac finds it amusing that one of the few things Jack likes to indulge in is a long, hot shower. _He also likes singing in there._ Mac shakes his head at the sounds of off-key Willie Nelson drifting out of the bathroom, letting Jack’s horrible singing ground him in reality. Mac doesn’t mind that Jack uses up all the hot water at home, it’s difficult enough to make himself take a shower if he doesn’t feel sweaty or dirty, and even at that, he tries to make it quick. He can’t stand in there for half an hour like Jack can, he can barely handle five minutes. 

_No, stop thinking like that._ He’s sending himself back down the spiral of bad things, which is not helping his current situation.

He’s mostly ready to go. Aside from his hair dripping slightly onto his collar, and the tie still resting on his bed.

Mac reaches for the tie. _It’s just a tie. It won’t jump up and bite you._ But it looks ominous, laying there on the bed in all its blue and grey simplicity. He should have picked a different color. Maybe red. Or green. Not something that even vaguely resembles metal. 

He swallows hard and glances in the mirror, trying to tame his hair. Now that he’s let it grow longer again it’s pretty unruly. _If I don’t get it settled before Jack comes out he’s probably going to try and lick his hand to do it._ The thought hits him only seconds before the memory that Jack doesn’t touch his hair without asking for permission now, not after that awful night when Mac’s nightmares were so bad he thought Jack was Murdoc. 

It takes far too little time to tame the stubborn cowlick, and he has to look at that damn tie again. He hates it. He wants to just forget the tie, but if he does, he’s going to get stopped at the door and mess up the op and Matty will be mad, and he can’t afford to ruin the op just because he has some residual issues. 

He takes a few deep breaths to steady the rising anxiety. He can’t freak out now, he just can’t. He reaches down and picks up the tie, forcing himself to touch it, to prove it’s safe.

The fabric is soft and silky, not the harsh metal chain links of Murdoc’s collar. _Collar, he tagged me like a pet. Like I was his._ He swallows the nausea. He’s not sure he can put this around his neck. His buttoned collar feels constricting enough already. 

“You okay hoss?” Jack asks, stepping out of the bathroom and fluffing a towel over his short hair. There’s a lot more grey it in than there used to be, and Mac thinks he knows why. _Those three months weren’t easy on any of us._

“Yeah.” Mac puts the tie around his collar and begins tying the knot, trying to make sure he keeps Jack’s voice in his head. 

_“Just think of that end as a little rabbit, hoss. He’s runnin’ away from a fox, and you want to make sure he gets down his hole and hides.”_

When they’d been getting ready for Sarah’s wedding and Jack had realized Mac couldn’t tie the tie for his suit, he’d taken it upon himself to give Mac that lesson. _I did used to know. Dad made me tie my own before Mom’s funeral. And then Harry taught me some different knots._ But he’d forgotten it all in favor of learning how to scale building walls, defuse bombs, and stay alive in a place where the only kind of ‘necktie’ is the kind you’re given with a sharp blade. 

He hurries through the steps, then tugs on the knot to snug it up to his collar. His phone buzzes on the table, and he involuntarily jumps, pulling the knot too tight. 

The feeling is instant and overwhelming. Mac stumbles, falling to his knees beside the bed, tugging at the tie and starting to panic when he can’t loosen it. _I tied it wrong, I tied it wrong, it’s supposed to just come off._ Dark spots are dancing around the edges of his vision, and he can’t tell whether it’s the too-tight tie or the oncoming panic attack that’s robbing him of all the oxygen in his lungs. 

_Murdoc bends down, hooking a finger in the collar around Mac’s neck and pulling his head up to face the monster’s eyes. “I think you need to be taught a lesson, Angus.” The chain links tighten further, the sharpened edges slicing into Mac’s skin. He flinches at the warm feeling of blood running down his neck. “I think you need to learn to_ stay. _”_

“Mac!” Jack is suddenly kneeling in front of him, his white dress shirt half-buttoned over his black pants. 

“I c-ca-can’t breathe,” Mac gasps, clawing at the cloth that feels like a noose around his neck. “Get it off, g-get it off, p-please, Jack.” He’s shaking and gasping for air and he just can’t _stop._

“Hey, hey. Easy now. We’re gonna get this off. Okay? You just gotta settle down for me so you don’t pull it tighter.” Jack’s breaking out the spooked horse voice, and Mac recognizes this particular reassurance as the same one he used when a heifer got her leg stuck in some old barbed wire down by the creek bed. 

He takes deep breaths, trying to calm down. Rationally he knows that panicking _is_ only making this whole situation worse, exacerbating his inability to breathe. But he also can’t control the bone-deep fear surging through him.

_Murdoc laughs. “Personally I think this suits you much better than those old dog tags.” He flicks the cold metal resting around Mac’s neck. “Oh, and don’t bother trying to get it off. I’d hate to have to break those oh so useful fingers.” Mac shivers helplessly while Murdoc’s hand slips from the collar into Mac’s hair, brushing the now-black strands out of his face and working their way through the tangles in a sick imitation of Jack’s gestures of comfort._

“Get away from me!” Mac gasps, shoving the hands away and curling into himself, backing up until his back hits the wall and he can’t go any further. He pulls his knees to his chest and huddles there, whimpering and rocking back and forth, trying to breathe and failing and trying harder, because he can’t breathe he can’t think he can’t move...he’s not safe he’s not okay he wants it to stop he wants everything to just _STOP_!

“Mac, it’s okay. It’s just me.” Jack’s voice is gentle and steady and soft. “Kiddo, I know you’re not havin’ a good time right now, but you gotta let me help.”

Mac takes the deepest breath he can and nods, uncurling a little from his huddle on the floor, just enough to give Jack’s hands a chance to reach the knot. Jack pushes a paperclip into Mac’s trembling hand, and Mac concentrates on bending it into the shape of a bow tie while Jack works on undoing the knot that Mac’s panicked scrambling has tightened into a solid, immovable thing.

Finally, the overwhelming pressure on Mac’s throat eases, and dimly, through a haze of tears, he sees Jack toss the tie away from them. “I got it, kiddo, I got it.”

Mac nods, then curls forward into Jack’s shoulder, sobbing. He can’t help it, and he can’t stop it. Not anymore. Even with the medication he’s been taking for it, his mood swings and emotional outbursts are barely controlled. He didn’t stand a chance of making it through this panic attack without losing it.

Jack’s arms wrap loosely around his shoulders, gently rubbing up and down Mac’s back. “It’s okay. Kiddo, it’s alright.”

“But the op, Matty…” Mac trails off, sobbing harder at the thought that he’s messed everything up, and Matty will probably say he shouldn’t be in the field anymore, and she’ll be right, he can’t even handle this, how will he ever handle it if something bad happens on an op…

“Matty will understand,” Jack says gently. “Cage and Riley and Bozer can handle this on their own.

Mac swallows and scrubs his hand over his eyes. Crying _hurts._ His eyes hurt and his head hurts and every breath feels like too much work, like he’s suffocating. He has to calm down. He can’t breathe or think and he just feels so lost and dizzy and scared. 

Jack begins to rock with Mac’s movements, humming tunelessly, or at least a tune Mac doesn’t recognize. He reaches for one of Mac’s hands and rests it over his chest. “Breathe with me Mac. In…out…in…out.” Mac slowly steadies himself, focusing on the steady rhythm under his fingers, the rise and fall of Jack’s chest under his hand. It’s strong and reassuring and real, and keeps his mind out of the dark crevices and the haunted places. Murdoc can’t touch him while Jack is holding him close. 

Finally, his panicked breathing eases and the overwhelming terrified feeling subsides. He curls up against Jack, feeling suddenly exhausted. _Panic attacks always wear me out completely._ He feels like he wants to sleep for a week. 

“I told Matty we can’t make it, she says it’s fine,” Jack says gently. “They’re ok for tonight without us. You wanna lay down on the bed? It’s probably more comfortable than the floor.”

Mac nods, still not ready to lift his head from Jack’s chest. Jack makes a good pillow. Mac likes resting his head there and listening to Jack’s steady heartbeat. “Will you still sit with me?” He asks. 

“Of course.” Jack says. “I’ll stay as long as you want, kiddo.” He gently scoops Mac up off the floor and deposits him on the bed. “Just a second, okay?” He keeps one hand on Mac’s shoulder while he reaches across to the other bed and pulls off the duvet, wrapping it around Mac gently. He sits down beside him, back against the headboard, and Mac curls up, resting his head on Jack’s chest again. 

He knows that this can’t last forever. That they can’t stay like this for the rest of their lives. But for now, he doesn’t think about that, he can’t or he’ll just spiral again. He needs to focus on right now, to stay right here in this moment where he’s safe and protected and nothing can hurt him because Jack is holding him tight.


	17. Doubts+Promises

###  Doubts + Promises

**Somewhere in Season 2**

“Take your hands off my kid.” Jack’s voice is firm, his hand steady on the gun raised, aimed at the head of the man who was trying to use Mac as a human shield to get away from Riley and Cage.  _ He didn’t count on Jack sneaking up on him down that side hallway. _

“I can put a bullet in his liver just as fast as you can put one in my head.” The gun digs deeper, painfully, into Mac’s side, and he can’t help the faint gasp. 

“I highly doubt that. Now let him go.” 

Finally, the man seems to accept that Jack is, in fact, serious, and that shooting Mac will be counterproductive to him staying alive anyway.  _ I’d have been a lot more worried if he wasn’t concerned about continuing to breathe. _ But using Mac as a human shield meant this guy did, in fact, not want to die. 

Jack takes the gun and pulls the man’s hands behind his back, fastening them tight with zipties as Cage and Riley run up. “Mac, are you okay?” Riley asks. She holsters her gun and reaches up to check the bruise on Mac’s cheek.

“I’ll be fine.” It’s his own fault, really, he should have been paying better attention to his surroundings. 

Jack yanks the would-be escapee around and starts shoving him down the hallway. “Let’s go, scumbag. My boss wants to have a little chat with you about all those bioweapons we found in your warehouse.” He’s rougher than he needs to be, and Mac can sense the seething anger. 

Jack pushes the man toward Cage. “You take him, can’t promise I won’t put two in his back before we get to exfil.” She nods, looking no less dangerous, then digs her gun into the man’s shoulder blade and pushes him down the hall.

“Mac, kiddo, you alright?” Jack asks. He gently turns Mac’s head sideways, the way Riley did, to look at the bruise. Mac’s never ceased to be amazed at how similar the two of them are. “He hurt you any more than this?”

Mac shakes his head. “Just pushed me into some of the machinery back there when I went looking for a toolbox.”

“A toolbox?” Jack asks. “Were you in the middle of something still?”

Mac shakes his head. “Not anymore. I was trying to find the parts to build a thermal scanner so we could see where in the building our merc ran off to. He answered that question for me.” 

“Well, that’s gonna bruise up pretty good,” Jack says. “We’ll get some ice on that once we get to exfil, hopefully you won’t have a black eye tomorrow.” 

_ Wouldn’t be the first. _ Mac doesn’t think it feels like the sort of damage that leaves a black eye, though. It’s too low on his face and the skin doesn’t feel hot around his eye. “I think it’ll be fine,” He says, almost without thinking about it.

“Yeah, still, we’re gonna check you over on the plane.” 

When they get to the jet, Jack gets their captive stowed in the holding section, and then the team settles down in the cabin. Mac watches as Jack steps into the kitchenette and grab some ice from the minifridge’s freezer.  _ Apparently we ran out of ice packs and forgot to restock.  _ Probably from the mission in Chile where Mac and Riley both fell down the side of a mountain in a rockslide. He was sore for a week. 

Jack wraps the ice cubes in a piece of paper towel and sits down across from Mac, handing over the ice. 

“Hold that on there, and hopefully that bruising’ll go down a little.” Mac freezes, the chill of the ice-filled towel against his face feeling like nothing compared to the one sliding down his spine. 

_ A rag and some ice tossed across the table at him. “Put that on it. Damn it, Angus, you can never stay out of trouble, can you?” James sitting down at the table, still fuming. “You’d better hope that goes away by Monday. I don’t need anyone asking questions.” _

“Mac?” He jumps at the concerned voice so close to him. Jack is frowning. “You get a concussion with that shiner too?”

“Don’t think so,” Mac mumbles. “Just…just startled me. It’s really cold.”

Jack gives him an unreadable smile, probably of the ‘I don’t think you’re telling me everything’ variety, but he doesn’t press the point.

“Okay, well, if you don’t have a concussion, you might as well try and get some sleep, kiddo.” Jack reaches over to ruffle Mac’s hair, and Mac jumps.

“Okay, no that’s not fine.” Jack says. “You did hit your head, didn’t you?” 

Mac shakes his head, but Jack’s fingers are already ruffling through his hair. “I’m fine, Jack really.” He uses the hand that isn’t holding the dripping towel of ice to push Jack’s fingers away.  _ I don’t need to be fussed over. I shouldn’t need it, I shouldn’t want it, and I shouldn’t get used to it.  _

“Okay, come again?” Jack says.

Mac realizes belatedly that he must have said that out loud. “I guess I just need to sleep.” He starts to turn away.

“We’ve been working together for two years now, Mac. You have every right to get used to me being there for you.” Jack’s hand is warm on Mac’s shoulder, and he wants to shake it off, but he doesn’t have the willpower. 

“I just shouldn’t.” Mac shrugs. “Eventually you’ll leave. Everyone does.”  _ Especially anyone who feels like a father. _ James left, Pena…well, Pena’s as good as dead, given the circumstances, and now Jack…

Mac can’t shake the feeling that something is going to happen. Ever since Jack started referring to Mac as his son, Mac’s felt weird about it.  _ People shouldn’t get that close to me. _ He was worried about losing this team before. Now, calling Jack his dad in any way sounds like tempting fate. It’s better to not get attached, so it doesn’t hurt so much when something inevitably happens that rips them apart. 

“Mac, I don’t know where this sudden doom and gloom thing is coming from, but I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Jack says. “I even passed this year’s physical with flying colors.” He gives Mac a lopsided smile. “I’m not plannin’ on kicking the bucket any time soon.” 

Mac nods. “But you can’t predict missions…” He looks away. “And you might get tired of this job. Or me.”

He thought he said the last part too quietly for Jack to pick up on, but his hand tightens on Mac’s shoulder. “Mac, I know that you had the worst possible excuse for a dad. Well, at least  _ one _ of the worst.” Mac glances at Riley sleeping in a chair up closer to the cockpit.  _ She didn’t have a wonderful childhood either. _ But her dad was a normal kind of screwed up. Mac’s is a psychopathic monster of supervillain proportions. 

Lately he’s tried to sort through his memories of James, see if he can find some clue he missed, something that would have told him his father was a deranged maniac. But all he can find are moments of cold distance and sharp correction. The places in the house he wasn’t supposed to go are a red flag now, but as a kid he remembers that the few friends he had, before everything went to hell, said that about their houses too. A study or a garage or a home office being off limits was far from uncommon. And despite the fact that he overheard fragments of many phone conversations, he definitely didn’t know enough about what they meant. 

_ I don’t even know what I’m trying to prove to myself. Am I really trying to guilt a ten-year-old me for not turning his only living parent in to the cops? For something I wouldn’t have even really understood at the time, no less.  _

All the ‘business trips’, all his dad’s ‘friends’…he’d believed that was normal. And somehow, even after joining Phoenix, even after learning the kind of red flags those are, he didn’t make the connection until Murdoc of all people flung the truth at his feet with a vicious, triumphant smile. 

Jack’s voice draws him back. “I get that you don’t really have a good measurement of a dad to use. But if there’s one thing my Pops taught me it’s that family is the most important thing in the world, and that a man should never take fatherhood lightly. Believe me, I do not. When I call you my son, I mean it. Family means sticking things out through everything that comes.” 

Mac shrugs, letting the melting ice fall onto the table. “I’m just…a lot.”

“I would say you’re wrong, but you’re not. But I mean that in the best way possible, Mac.” Jack smiles. “Every minute I get to spend with you is the wildest adventure of my life, and that’s exactly what being a parent is all about.” He glances at Riley. “The two of you turned my life upside down, and I would not have it any other way.” 

Mac isn’t sure why it feels like those words are wrapping around his heart and squeezing it. But they do.  _ Who voluntarily chooses to have their life invaded by a couple of people who make chaos in it constantly? _

_ Parents. Real parents, who have kids knowing full well what they’re getting themselves into. Who’ve decided that raising their family is the most important thing in their world, no matter what kind of havoc it might play on their own personal lives. _

Maybe Jack didn’t really expect to have a couple kids thrown into his lap, but he’s risen to the challenge. 

Mac takes a deep breath.  _ He’s not going to leave, and he’s certainly not going to start hurting you. _ He feels bad for flinching from Jack’s hand earlier. Logically, he knows Jack would never do that. But he still had James in his mind. He hates the way that the closer he gets to Jack, the more the memories of James resurface. Harsh words were his most common punishments, but he wasn’t above using something more physical if he thought Mac deserved it. 

He thinks he should probably apologize to Jack for that flinch. Or more accurately for the almost instinctive reason for it. Jack will say it’s not necessary, but Mac knows that even for a moment thinking Jack would hurt him wasn’t fair to Jack at all. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles. He wants to explain but the words are choking him.

“For what? We got our guy and there is no reason to apologize for having a biological parent who sucked, okay? James isn’t your fault.” 

“I’m sorry for being scared of you.” Mac just blurts it out before he can think about it much longer. “I know you’re not like him but sometimes it’s hard to remember fast enough.”  _ Great, that probably made no sense at all. _

“Mac, like I said. Nothing to apologize for. I get that the whole thing with me stepping into the dad shoes is making things a little weird sometimes. That it’s gonna take a while to adjust.” Jack sits down beside him but doesn’t touch. “And I want to make it as easy on you as I can. What should I not do?”

Mac shrugs. “You’re already avoiding sudden movements or swinging your hand around my face, and I can’t predict when just being touched will set me off.”  _ There’s a whole host of reasons for that being bad news, and everyone here knows that. _ “And it’s not like you can stop wearing a belt.”

He feels Jack tense up beside him, even though they’re not touching. 

“Mac?” Jack’s voice is deliberately held in check, but vibrating with angry tension. “Did he…”

“Not very often.” Mac knows it sounds like he’s going to start defending James’s actions, and he’s not, but this is the truth. He can count on both hands the number of times a belt was part of his punishment.  _ James reserved that for the things he really wanted to impress on me never to do again. _

“That’s supposed to be a never, you know that, right?” Jack asks. “Now, can’t say Momma or Pops never took a paddle to me when I was a kid, but Pops would never have done something like that. Never made me afraid of somethin’ I had to see every day.” Jack sighs. “I can find a different kind, if that helps. Maybe Riley’ll loan me one of her canvas ones with all the weird useless holes punched in it.”

Mac looks up and meets Jack’s eyes, seeing the combination of sadness and an attempt at comfort. “I think I’ll be okay, but thanks for the offer.”

“You tell me if you’re  _ not _ okay, alright?” 

“Yeah.” Mac gives him a sudden grin. “Kinda want to see you wearing one of Riley’s belts just for kicks now.” 

“When she wakes up, I’ll ask her. On one condition. Neither of you takes any blackmail pictures, you hear me?”

Mac settles back a little further in the seat, his stress swallowed up in a combination of the mental image of Jack wearing Riley’s camo canvas belt and the thought that Jack never said  _ Cage _ wasn’t allowed to take some blackmail pictures. 


	18. Flowers + Guitar Picks

###  Flowers+Guitar Picks

**Post 3.19 Friends+Enemies+Border**

Riley’s more than a little concerned when, for the second time in a week, a text from Bozer drags her out of bed in the morning. She grabs for the phone in a panic, heart instantly racing, adrenaline pumping through her blood and making her feel like she just downed black coffee. 

_ There’s no way it’s another bomb. No way.  _

She opens the message with shaky fingers and blinks a couple times at the plain words on the text background. 

**Riley, I’ve got something I want to show you.**

It doesn’t sound ominous, and there’s no picture of a bomb about to go off under his feet. She guesses Bozer’s got a new script, he always writes after crazy ops that they barely survive. It’s how he processes, like Riley’s running (her legs are still a little shaky and sore from the six miles yesterday).  _ He probably wants me to play a part in it. He always asks.  _ She thinks Bozer’s grateful for a captive audience, or more accurately a captive casting pool. She pretends to balk at it, to act like it’s a huge decision. But she loves watching him work. Bozer is a hell of an agent, but she can tell he’s where he truly belongs behind a camera. He comes alive. There’s an energy that floods him and sparks in his eyes, like when Jack gets on a horse in Texas or Mac finds everything he needs to build his latest creation in a room. 

She throws on a shirt and a pair of jeans while texting him back. 

**Sure, are you at Mac’s?**

The response startles her. 

**No, downstairs at your place.**

**Ok be down in ten** . She puts on a pair of boots, looks at her hair and decides any work to put it in any semblance of order is a lost cause. She brushes her teeth quickly, she hates the gross feeling in her mouth in the mornings too much not to, and grabs a jacket from the hook by the door, and on reflection her rig as well.  _ Who knows when I might need it. _ Her carrying her rig is like Mac with his knife. 

When she gets down to the public level of the apartment building, Bozer is there waiting, leaning on the vending machine. He’s holding two takeout coffees from the place that’s down the block from Riley’s building, and Riley feels the warmth seeping into her fingers through the thick paper.

“Mac fixed my car, he’s been working on it every night when he can’t sleep. I decided to take it out for a test drive, and I thought, there’s something I have to show you.” He smiles. “I’ve wanted to since we talked the other day.”

“Okay.” Riley has no idea what this is, but it sounds like Bozer’s not going to tell her until they get there. She follows him out to the car, putting her rig in the backseat and climbing in, still nursing the coffee in her hands. 

Bozer drives them into one of the less than ideal parts of town, taking a left onto Franklin Street. Riley has total confidence in what he’s doing, and she’s seen far worse than the underbelly of L.A., but she wonders what they’re doing on a street that’s known to be a hotspot for cartel conflict. They’re almost at the border of the Meridas and Los Diablos turf. 

Then it hits. This is where Jerry was gunned down that night. She clutches the coffee so tightly she thinks she might smash the almost empty cup.  _ I wonder if he’s coming back for the first time?  _

Bozer pulls into an empty lot behind a coffee shop, and parks the car. He reaches into the back for a cardboard box, and lifts it out, then steps out of the car and walks over to a brick wall that’s covered in paint. Most of it has faded and chipped, and there’s some cartel graffiti over it, but Riley can see what looks like an outline of a guitar. 

“What is this place, Bozer?” She asks.

He rests his fingers on the flaking paint. “Jerry’s band made this.” He gestures to the faint stubs of scorched candle wax and faded cloth and plastic flowers resting on the ground in the midst of stray newspaper pages and cigarette butts, and the smashed remains of a bottle. “They wanted a memorial that was  _ him _ , you know? And the coffee shop owner said he’d rather have something good painted on his wall than have the cartels marking it up.”

She nods. Bozer reaches into the box and pulls out a pair of gloves, starting to pick up some of the litter and shove it in a garbage bag. “The last of the band members finally moved away this year. He got a job in Seattle. And the coffee shop changed hands, so no one’s left to keep this place up.”

“No one but us.” Riley says. “You got more of those gloves?” 

“No, but I got a few cans of spray paint.”

“Listen, just because I have a juvie record does  _ not  _ mean I know how to graffiti walls,” Riley begins, struggling not to grin or start laughing. 

“Well, I do,” Bozer says. “If you really need someone to teach you…”

“Oh hell no. I got this.” Riley grins. “You think we should just touch it up and cover the gang stuff?” 

“Actually I had an idea I sketched out the other night,” Bozer says. He rummages in the box and pulls out a slightly crumpled paper. Riley takes it and holds it up. The basic form of the guitar is still there, but growing from the flame pattern on the lower part of the body is the shape of a Phoenix, wings spreading out alongside the neck and head rising above the top. The beak looks odd, and it takes Riley a moment to realize it’s actually a guitar pick. 

“I like it.” Riley starts pulling out paint cans and shaking them. “This will be fun.”

She starts with the guitar, broad, thick lines that capture its more solid look in the drawing, as opposed to the lighter, more ethereal phoenix, that in Bozer’s sketch looks very much like a flickering flame. 

“If the cops drive by…” Riley begins. 

“I cleared it with the new owner,” Bozer says.

“I was gonna say, all I have to do is run faster than you, right?” Riley grins. 

“You…” Bozer shakes his head. “Remind me why we’re friends again?” 

“Because you put up with me,” Riley says. She sets down the cans of blue and black, and picks up a shimmery looking orange. 

When she’s finished with the artwork, ready to ask for Bozer’s approval, she can see that he’s set up a couple new candles and a handful of flowers, real ones this time. There’s a few little scrubby weeds growing out of cracks in the wall and between the edge of it and the pavement, and Bozer has left them alone. Riley thinks that was a good choice. They’re not the prettiest flowers ever, but they’re strong. 

“It looks good. Really good.” Bozer says. “A masterpiece actually. I think the owner will love it. I think he told me it was okay to do this more to humor the kid who lost his baby brother than anything else. Pretty sure he thought the side of his building was about to become a real eyesore. But I think he’ll love this.” 

“I signed it too,” Riley says, pointing out the small stylized A with circuitry around it tucked in a corner of the violin. 

Bozer chuckles. “That’s gutsy, putting something identifiable on it. Think Matty would bail us out for getting caught defacing private property?” 

Riley turns to him with a wink. “We still have three half-full cans of paint. We could find out.”

“I don’t want to know  _ that _ badly,” Bozer says. 

“You think Mac would let us give his ugly new truck a little character?” Riley asks.

“Oh, I am not going there.” Bozer shakes his head. “You’re having too much fun breaking the law, you know that, right?” 

“There  _ is _ a reason I work for a clandestine agency and not an IT firm,” Riley says, setting the paint cans in the box. “Think we should go in and tell the owner we’re done? And maybe get a little more coffee? My treat this time.” 

“That sounds  _ great. _ ” Bozer shoves the box back in the car. “Looks like I’m gonna have to keep you away from aerosol paint cans too now. I thought Mac blowing them up was the most I was gonna have to worry about. But now I’ve got a little vandal on my hands too.”

Riley shakes her head and punches his arm. “Let’s go get some coffee.” 


	19. Pizza+Skee-Ball

### Pizza+Skee-Ball

**Post-3.20 No Go+ High Voltage + Rescue**

PIZZA PALACE

SOMETIMES GREASY FOOD IS THE ANSWER TO LIFE’S PROBLEMS

“Another fifty? Riley, this is unfair.” Jack says, grinning. 

“You know you’d complain if I let you win too easily.” Riley chuckles. “What can I say. I have skills.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re killin’ me here,” Jack says, tossing one of his own balls and groaning when it only makes a ten.

 _“You’re killin’ me here.”_ It’s nothing more than Jack’s casual expression for anything from traffic jams to his kids showing him up at arcade games, but today it drives Riley’s heart into her throat. Her next toss doesn’t even make a score at all.

Jack frowns. “You trying to make your old man feel better?”

Riley doesn’t answer. She suddenly doesn’t feel like playing anymore. She sets down the rest of the balls she has left to throw and picks up the plate of pizza she left on a nearby table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Riley tugs off a piece of pepperoni but can’t bring herself to put it in her mouth. She just sits there, staring at her plate.

“I almost shot him, Jack.” Her voice shudders and cracks. “And I could have. If Mac hadn’t been…” Okay is not the word she’s looking for, but she doesn’t know if there is a word that describes the semi-acceptable point between traumatized and assaulted. Because if it had been any worse, she can’t guarantee Derek Diresta would have lived to stand trial. 

Jack sighs, sitting down beside her. “This is the second time we’ve had this conversation since I told y’all I was adopting Mac.” He tugs at a string of cheese on his own pizza, setting it back on top of the slice before taking a bite. 

Riley’s aware. There was really too much to process after that ill-fated Washington camping trip, but one of the things that kept her up, aside from the memory of Mac’s screams and the echo of gunshots, is the thought that she held a gun to a man’s head and demanded he tell her where Mac was, or he’d regret it. 

It hadn’t been quite as cold a threat that time. She’d been considering shooting him in the knee or somewhere else nonfatal. Still…out there in the middle of nowhere, it could have just as likely been a death sentence. _He’s the only one the rangers found alive. A little hypothermic and dehydrated, but better off than the rest of his crew._

“I guess…it just suddenly made it feel real. He’s been my little brother for a long time now, but…”

Jack nods slowly. “You wouldn’t think making things official with a piece of paper could make such a difference.” He glances at Riley. “Only reason I’ve been waiting on yours is because the wedding’s in a few months anyway. But…”

“If you’re wondering if I’m jealous, I’m not. Really.” She can see where Jack might think she feels slighted. _After all, he’s known me longer and he still adopted Mac first._ But she got over that jealousy in the first few months they spent with Mac, or at least once they got past the initial rocky start. _It was hard, to see Jack spending a lot of time with someone else. Abandonment issues suck._ She knows Mac’s are a lot worse than hers, but that doesn’t mean hers don’t matter, and it doesn’t mean they don’t impact her. _Elwood left, and as irrational as it was, I was afraid Jack was replacing me._ The whole insecure thing has cropped up a few more times, not quite as bad each time, but she can honestly say that’s not at all what’s impacted yesterday’s close call.

She’s glad Mac and Jack have the chance to bond a little before everything else, as a legitimate father and son. It’s not bothering her now. What is bothering her is the thought of letting anything happen to the person who will soon in every sense of the term be her little brother for real. 

“I can’t let anyone hurt him.” Her breath comes choppy, she feels sick. “I want to pummel everyone who ever laid a finger on him in a cruel way. Is this what you feel like all the time?” 

“Not all the time.” Jack’s hands curl over hers, there’s a little pizza grease on his fingers and she can feel it soaking into her own skin. “I mean, there are days when I feel like one of the ranch bulls seeing red. And yeah, if Mac was here he’d correct me and say they’re angered by movement rather than color, but...that’s beside the point.” He smiles. “But the thing is, when it’s over, it’s over. Those people are never going to be able to hurt him again, and as soon as that’s the case, then Mac needs me to be soft. And comforting. Not scary and hell bent on vengeance.” 

Riley nods. “How do you do it? How do you turn it off?”

Jack smiles sadly. “I have to admit, that’s a work in progress. But...the one thing that helps the most? I tell myself, ‘you were willing to shoot someone a minute ago because that’s what you were thinking would protect Mac. That’s what he needed in that moment. But now what he needs is you to be gentle’.”

Riley nods. “That...actually makes sense.” She doesn’t feel like pulling the trigger because she’s angry, because there’s some kind of thoughtless feral rage. It’s because she wants to protect Mac. And as long as she can remember that, she can remember that Mac needs other things too. Like for them to be gentle and non threatening as soon as he’s safe. 

Riley’s always been impressed with Jack’s ability to go from snarling papa bear to gentle, comforting parent in what seems like the blink of an eye. But now she can see how it happens. Both things are Jack being a parent. A good one, the one who will defend his kids against anyone who would harm them...but who also can turn around and let them cry into his shoulder after the pain or even the scare of a close call. 

She knows she has a long way to go to reach Jack-level ability to become whatever her family needs in that moment, protector or comforter. But being let in on the secret is a good feeling. 

“Just when I think you’ve spilled all your secrets, the Jack Dalton School of Infinite Wisdom rolls out a new course.” She grins, reaching for her glass of root beer, some of the nervous twisting in her gut finally dispelled. 

“Yeah, you know, I’m thinking of asking if they’ll let me teach a course at that super fancy spy school.”

“The same one you got kicked out of?” Riley asks, chuckling. 

“Okay, maybe not. Maybe I’ll just start my _own_ spy school. For all the stuff they don’t teach you there.” He grins, leaning back. “New retirement plan.”

“As if you’re ever really going to do that.”

“I might.” Jack chuckles. “Get a few more years under my belt, make sure you kids are gonna be alright, and then Diane and I can spend our lives without me having to run off every two weeks to save the world.” 

He actually sounds serious this time. Riley’s heard him joke a lot about retirement, but she’s never heard him sound like he actually means it. He’s always said he figures he’s going to die how he’s lived, with a gun in his hand fighting beside his people. _Maybe he really is considering settling down._

The thought gives her a confused butterfly feeling, but that’s something to be dealt with another time, with a separate trip to the Pizza Palace. Instead, she pushes her plate away and grabs the remaining balls. “Well, I hope the School of Infinite Wisdom keeps a slot open for the undisputed master of how to play Skee-Ball.”

  
  



	20. Diner+Paperwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My contribution to the fandom rewatch is apparently turning into more deleted scenes...

###  Diner+Paperwork

**Pre-1.01 The Rising**

Samantha Cage steps into the small diner, listening to the bell overhead tinkle, glancing behind her as the door closes, out past the fading sign advertising a burger special into the parking lot. None of the cars look familiar, and the one that pulls in wasn’t behind her when she drove here.

She glances around the room. There’s a family with plates of pancakes and a father making some straw-wrapper caterpillars, the kids laughing in the way that pre-schoolers do when they see something that’s the most fascinating thing in the world for those five seconds. 

She turns away, glancing at the row of senior citizens at the counter, with mugs of coffee and Vietnam Veteran hats on, talking about the weather and their grandchildren and someone’s funeral. There’s a couple at another table, both looking tired and the girl wearing a button-down open over what looks like a short prom dress. Both of them have coffee and the guy’s downing a plate of bacon like there’s no tomorrow. 

And in the booth Sam herself would have picked, the one that has a view of the door, the emergency exit, and the parking lot (as long as the blinds are partially pulled up, as they happen to be), is a tall woman with a slightly loose black bun, piercing dark eyes, and a fitted vest over a grey shirt.  _ Professional, but doesn’t scream secret agent. She could be just another office drone getting a meal before work. _ Sam wishes she’d gone for something maybe a little more crisp than a grey sweatshirt, but the point of this meeting was to be inconspicuous. Sam sees a briefcase tucked beside the woman, next to the window. 

She slides into the booth across from the woman, ignoring the sharp stab of concern in her chest at having her back to the door. This isn’t her place to be dominant, to have the high ground. She’s on someone else’s turf. And it seems Patricia Thornton, the director of a black-budget agency known only as DXS, is determined to make sure Sam knows who’s in charge. 

Thornton slides a cup of coffee across the table, and Sam notices that it’s the exact shade her own is at the office.  _ She did her research. _ Thornton knew she came to play ball with a psy-ops agent. She’s trying to out-psych Sam. But Cage has a few cards of her own to play.

“Don’t suppose you’re willing to share the bourbon in your purse,” she asks casually as she takes her coffee and blows on the surface. 

Thornton’s eyes widen just a fraction. She quickly reins in the surprise, but Sam knows she just scored a point in this interview. That’s what it is, however unofficial. Everything about this place is a test. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet the legend in person.” Thornton holds out a hand, and Cage returns the strong grip. 

“Likewise. I was told the DXS was presumably a better fit for my particular skill set than the CIA.” She doesn’t add that they haven’t found her a partner yet who wants to work with an ex-Scorpion operative, particularly not the one with the moniker, “The Negotiator” attached to her file.  _ Everyone expects me to be playing the long game. To flip back to my old self when least expected. _

She heard a story as a child that left an impression that’s never quite faded. The legend of the scorpion and the frog. The scorpion who kills the frog who’s ferrying it across the stream, despite the fact that the act will doom them both. “ _ Because it’s my nature,” said the scorpion _ . 

She knows everyone sees her like that creature. Willing to bite the hand that feeds because there’s no shaking the monster she used to be. Everyone is walking on eggshells around her, ready to react the second her ‘true nature’ reappears. 

_ The truth is, that’s what’s already happened. _ She turned on her old agency, despite the fact that until her, no Scorpion operative has ever walked away from the dark agency. She suppresses a shudder at the near-literal application of the story’s ending.  _ A rainy night, headlights on the wrong side of the road, a river, broken glass and rising water. _ It still haunts her.

“I appreciate the trust.” She says. “The kids are a nice touch.” No one in this diner is here by chance. She’s sure the young couple at the window table have come off a long op rather than a long weekend, and the family man currently making an airplane out of a toast triangle is actually an engineer of some sort. Probably from the ostensibly think-tank side of the agency. And those veterans...well, OPI predated DXS and they had a reputation for offering work to a lot of the Vietnam vets who came home and struggled to adjust. “But I see you’re still carrying.”

“As are you.” Thornton directs a glance to Sam’s side, where the slight bulge in her oversize sweatshirt was previously concealed by her over-the-shoulder purse. “I’d expect nothing less from a woman with a price on her head that’s higher than my yearly government paycheck.” 

Thornton pulls a manila folder from her briefcase and sets it on the table. Sam’s SAS intake headshot is attached to the front, her hair still dull and limp from her months in a black site prison, her cheek scar still fairly visible. She rubs the side of her face as she turns the file around to look at a name that’s still not second nature to accept as her own when she sees it in print. She lost count of how many times she stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the tiny apartment her agency rented for her in Canberra, repeating the unfamiliar syllables to herself until they almost stopped making any sense at all. 

“I understand the CIA would prefer that you provide them intel on Scorpion from behind secure doors.” Thornton says. “While I understand their concern, I believe your record demonstrates that you work best in the field, gathering your own intel, working your own informants.” She looks up. “I want to see Scorpion taken down. We’ve lost some good agents to them, and if our intel is to be believed they’re looking to expand their operations massively.”

Cage nods. “Everything I’ve seen is pointing me toward the assumption that they’re planning a merger with some other criminal organization.”

“Have you ever heard of a group we know simply as ‘The Organization’?” Thornton asks.

Sam frowns. It’s not the most creative name, but it has crossed her desk on briefing packets a few times. “We had some dealings with them a month ago at Lake Como. If they’re Scorpion’s planned merger, I don’t want to see what they’ll be capable of in connection.”

“What are you offering me exactly?” Sam asks, thumbing through the file with the words ‘potential contract asset’ in watermark on the pages.

“You won’t be a direct employee of DXS. As such, you would be required only to report your actions to your managing supervisor. Which would be me.” Thornton says. “While the agency can’t officially sanction your direct involvement in any investigation of Scorpion, I’m not required to pass along every document on our contracted employees.” 

Cage nods. “You want your people to deal with the Organization while I go on a one-man crusade against my old employers. Sounds fun.” 

“In or out?” Thornton asks. 

“In.” Sam finishes her coffee and sets down the mug with a firm thud. “Your father seems nice,” she says, standing up. “I think I’ll stop and say hello on the way out.” She turns around and smiles, then glances briefly at the man two in from the left at the counter, nursing a mug and laughing at something one of his war buddies said. “Medal of Honor. That’s impressive. But I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about it.” 

This time, Thornton’s face does go slack. She blinks. “Welcome to the DXS, Agent Cage.” 


	21. Pillow Forts+Fevers

###  Pillow Forts+Fevers

**Post 3.20 No Go+High Voltage+Rescue**

“Don’ wanna go to medical,” Mac mumbles from a cocoon of blankets. 

“Mac, you’re spiking a fever of 102.” Jack shakes the thermometer. “You’re going to medical.”

“Can we call Dr. Grey to do a phone diagnosis?” Mac asks. “She offered once.” 

Jack sighs. Mac has been holed up in the house since Brazil. He doesn’t want to leave, he barely wants to leave his room. He’s okay with Jack going places, like to see Riley a couple days ago, or to go get them takeout last night, but he’s been jumpy. And then this morning he woke Jack up babbling nonsense and running this fever. 

“Okay, but...those are supposed to be for field emergencies only, Mac. When they can’t get a med team on site fast enough.” Jack did emergency surgery on Riley’s collapsed lung once over one of those, and he set Mac’s dislocated wrist to one last year, since they still had half the op to finish. It wasn’t a good time. None of it. 

“Just see if you can get her on the video call.” Mac mumbles, curling up even further. 

Jack nods. He knows Dr. Grey is understanding. She’s willing to bend a lot of rules for Mac. She knows Mac doesn’t do well in Phoenix Med, no matter how many times he’s been in there. 

“Hey, what’s up, Doc?” Jack asks when the familiar concern-lined face and silver-streaked red hair appears on the phone screen.

“Well, since you’re cracking jokes, I’m fairly sure Mac’s not actively dying, but I also don’t think this is a social call, is it?”

“Mac’s sick.” Jack switches the camera view so Dr. Grey can see Mac. “Spiked a 102.3 fever this morning.”

Jack sets down the phone and pulls the blankets back, trying to ignore how Mac shudders and his fingers twitch at the edge of the blankets, trying to pull them back over his body. Jack gets the feeling this is less about the chill from the fever and more about the fact that Mac’s seemed to have nightmares about his clothes being taken ever since they got back.

Dr. Grey frowns. “I didn’t see wounds reported on the exfil evaluation other than some rope abrasions on the wrists. Mac, you’re not holding out on anything, are you?”

“No. And the wrists are healing.” Mac holds up one arm shakily to demonstrate

“Does he have any rashes?” Dr. Grey asks. Jack gently lifts Mac’s hands, checks his neck, and tugs down the stretched-out, oversize collar of the Whitesnake t-shirt Mac’s wearing. “Don’t see any.”

“Nausea or pain?” Dr. Grey continues. “Any other symptoms?”

Mac shakes his head. “Just woke up with the fever. And a bit of a headache but I think it’s dehydration.”

“Honestly, I’d be most inclined to say we’re looking at a psychogenic fever here. Mac’s had his course of vaccines for South American ops within the past year. He’s not presenting symptoms of an infection or virus. Just an elevated body temperature.” She shakes her head. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Frankly I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner.” 

“So what am I supposed to do for one of these here Psycho fevers?” Jack asks. Dr. Grey facepalms. Mac snickers. 

“Just keep him hydrated and cool and comfortable,” Dr. Grey says. “Normal fever reduction medications don’t seem to have an effect on psychogenic conditions, but his anti-anxiety medication should help, at least a little, so make sure he keeps taking that. And try to avoid stressing him more.” Jack nods. “Hopefully his fever will come down in a few days.”

“Is this the right time to say I think I’ve had it for a while?” Mac asks weakly. “Not this bad, but…”

“Mac…” Jack says warningly.

“Since Murdoc. I thought it was just because everything was healing, but...it kind of comes and goes. Today’s just worse.” Mac shrugs slightly and pulls the blankets back over himself. 

“Does that mean it’s not the psycho-whatever thing?” Jack asks. 

Dr. Grey shakes her head. “Still could be. Some patients’ symptoms can last months, and he has been under significant stress since before that point.”

Jack sighs.  _ She’s not wrong. But if this is gonna be what happens to him when things pile on... _

Dr. Grey is still talking. “Hopefully, avoiding stress will help manage the symptoms and eventually clear this fever up entirely.”

“Last time I checked, Doc, we ain’t exactly got a really stress free work environment.”

“As of now you do. Mac’s going to be medically ordered to stand down from ops until his body temperature can hold an average baseline for three consecutive days, measured five times per day.”

“Don’t even think about arguing,” Jack says to the heap of blankets in the corner of the bed. Mac just mumbles something incoherent and flips him off.  _ Damn it, we’ve reached the awkward teenage rebellion phase. _ He’s learned thanks to Riley that even if you don’t actually have biological kids, relationships with them go through almost the same stages as with raising kids of one’s own. Riley had her sassy stage about a year before Mac showed up.  _ It’s totally different than the initial standoffish phase. This is snark with less bite behind it, but still the you’re-not-the-boss-of-me kind of attitude. _

Dr. Grey turns and Jack hears slamming doors. “I have to go. I’ll be available via text, and if he gets worse don’t hesitate to bring him in.” The call cuts off and Jack is alone with Mac. 

He glances at Mac, who’s now pulling the blankets over his head. “Kiddo, we gotta cool you down. Not wrap you up like a burrito.” 

“Sun hurts my eyes,” Mac mumbles. And Jack has an idea.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. “When I was a kid, Pops would make these elaborate pillow forts in the living room every time me and my sister got sick. He made it fun.” Mac uncurls just a little, looking up.

“You think you could help me engineer the most structurally sound pillow fort the world has ever known?” Jack asks with a smile. “Let’s get you out on the couch and you can talk me through it, okay?” He winks. “I promise I won’t even argue with your design.”

“Wow. Just for that, I’m in,” Mac says, pushing aside most of the blankets and sitting up, one particularly fluffy one still wrapped snugly around his shoulders like a cape. Jack helps him stand and walk out to the couch, settling the kid down with Mickey beside him, the dog’s head in Mac’s lap. He doesn’t miss how tightly Mac’s fingers are wrapped in Mickey’s thick neck fur. He leaves a glass of water on the coffee table within easy reach next to Mac’s bottles of medication, and starts tugging pillows off the chairs, the second couch (Riley bought a truly obnoxious lime green and gold thing at a thrift store a few weeks ago, insisting they needed more family seating space), and anywhere else he can find them, including his own bed. He grabs a couple blankets from there as well.

“Okay, Mac, what’s the plan?”

Mac directs construction from the couch, while Jack moves chairs, arranges pillows, and adjusts the angles of everything as best he can without a full toolkit of construction equipment. 

Once it’s finished, with the top less reinforced so that it won’t hold a lot of heat, but will still keep the space dark, Jack unrolls the small air mattress inside, spreads a sleeping bag over that, and Mac stands up shakily and steps in, leaning against the back of one of the chairs and curling up, Mickey squished in beside him, whining softly as he nuzzles Mac’s cheek. Jack grins and sits down near the entrance, so his body heat won’t be adding to what’s inside. He gets Mac a fresh glass of water, frowning at the fact that the first one was only half empty. 

“Mac, you gotta drink more water, kiddo.” 

“I know.” Mac takes the glass and sips at it, then sets it aside. 

Jack ruffles his sweaty hair. “Shoulda asked you if you wanted to take a shower first.”

He doesn’t miss the sharp recoil of Mac’s shoulders.  _ Damn it.  _ If Mac’s having such a violent reaction to the idea of taking a shower, it’s not good. Jack had assumed things were fine because Mac had taken a shower the morning Jack went to get pizza with Riley, he knows the kid wasn’t lying about it because his hair was wet when Jack came back. 

_ Maybe it’s because he wouldn’t be able to do it alone today. _ Jack sighs.  _ Aw kid. _ He knows something happened back there. Not the worst, or Mac would be in significantly more misery, but he’s shaken. 

Listening to comms and reading the crisp, professional action reports doesn’t tell him enough. Doesn’t tell him what those men might have done to Mac, what’s going to set him off. Whether their cruel words were accompanied by invasive hands. He knows they didn’t touch the kid’s hair, because Mac hasn’t flinched from Jack’s hands running through it, but he doesn’t dare try to put a comforting hand on Mac’s arm or shoulder. And he’s not sure how Mac will react if he needs help changing his sweat-soaked clothes, both Riley and Desi’s reports said the men had removed Mac’s shirt. Jack figures that was around the time he’d heard the men discussing over comms whether Mac had as many tattoos as Desi. 

He’d like to get the kid into a fresh shirt at least, and into the shower under cool water before that. But he can’t trust that either of those things won’t send Mac into a spiral, and according to Dr. Grey, stressing him out is going to make this fever worse and last longer.  _ So I guess the lesser evils it is. _

Mac eventually begins to nod off. The dark coziness inside the pillow fort seems to be reassuring him, as is Jack’s presence in the doorway. Mac stretches out on the floor, his fingers finding Jack’s ankle as his breathing evens out and deepens. 

Jack leans back against the wall, wondering if he can catch a catnap as well. It doesn’t last. Mac begins thrashing and gasping only a few minutes into his own rest. “N-no, stop, don’t,” he mumbles, squirming and pushing the blanket he was wearing off of himself. Mickey whines and paws at Mac’s leg, and Jack feels the same level of concerned distress as the therapy dog clearly does. 

“Hey, Mac, it’s okay. You’re safe.” Jack says. 

“Jack!” Mac cries out sharply, hands flailing, like he’s reaching out. Jack takes a chance and holds out his own hand, and Mac grabs it like a lifeline, blinking and looking up through the sweat-darkened hair falling into his eyes. 

He curls into Jack’s side, and they sit like that for a long time, Mac’s ragged breathing slowly acclimating to Jack’s steady rhythm. 

Jack ghosts a hand over the kid’s forehead and flinches. His fever doesn’t seem any better. He grabs the thermometer off the coffee table and checks.  _ 102.7. It’s gone up again. _ He doesn’t tell Mac, because that seems like a stress inducing thing, especially with Dr. Grey’s warning to bring the kid in to medical if things get worse, but…he can tell he doesn’t have to. When he looks up from the thermometer reading, he can see the understanding in Mac’s eyes. The kid shifts slightly, his blanket falling off one shoulder, and then begins twisting the edge of the cloth, biting his lip. 

“I think it’s these nightmares,” Mac says weakly. “If I could get them to stop, then maybe this would stop too.” Jack nods.  _ It’s a vicious cycle. The nightmares stress him out, so the fever gets worse, and the higher the fever, the more unpredictable and scary his dreams get. _

“Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here.” 

Mac flinches. Jack has no idea what he said that caused that. He just offered to listen. And then Mac starts talking and he doesn’t have to wonder any more.

“It’s always the same. They’re hurting me, and you aren’t there.” Mac’s voice is just a trembling whisper. “I keep asking for you, and you never come.” He shudders, and Jack wraps his arms a little tighter around Mac’s shoulders as the kid starts to sob. “They were taking my clothes and I was scared and they wouldn’t leave me alone and they wanted to…they were going to...they said...” He trails off in another halting choked cry. “I just want you, and you’re not there. I’m all alone and I’m scared and you’re not there. I can’t find you and you never come and they...I’m all alone.” 

His words are barely audible between the gasping sobs that shake his whole body, and Jack can’t help but notice the way Mac’s stumbling over every sentence, repeating himself like a small scared child.  _ I’m all alone. You’re not there. _ Jack wonders how long the kid’s been hanging onto this fear and pain.  _ Probably since this fever started. Since Murdoc. _

_ Oh kiddo. _ Jack rests his hands carefully on Mac’s back as he curls into Jack’s chest, clinging to his shirt and sobbing shakily.  _ Might as well let him cry it out. He needs that.  _ Mac’s been told for too long by the man who had no right to call himself a father, that that’s weakness.  _ But the truth is, letting people see the hurt places is the strongest thing you can do. _ Jack is so damn proud of his kid. But his heart is still breaking. 

“I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there, Mac.” Jack holds him gently. He feels helpless.  _ I keep telling him I’m going to protect him, that I won’t let anyone hurt him, but then things like this happen. _ He couldn’t save Mac from Murdoc, and he couldn’t keep him out of Diresta’s hands. “I told you I would be, and I as good as lied to you. That’s my fault.”

“I’m not mad,” Mac chokes out between sobs. “Just want you there.” He shivers, and Jack pulls the blanket up a little tighter around his shoulders. “I’m scared, and I don’t even want you to fix it, I just want you  _ there. _ ” A fresh round of tears spills down his cheeks. “I just want you.”

Jack knows that if the kid wasn’t running a fever right now he’d never admit to any of this.  _ Mac doesn’t want to make anyone think he’s a burden. He doesn’t want to tell us when something we do hurts him. _ Jack hates that it took a fever for Mac to admit to how much Jack not being with him scares him. But he’s glad he knows now. Because…it’s been bothering him too. _ I’m supposed to watch his back. And the past few months, I feel like a failure at that.  _

“I just don’t want to be alone,” Mac says weakly, still shaking. 

“And I don’t want you to be, either,” Jack says gently. “How about I march in there to the office tomorrow and tell Matty no more splitting us up on ops unless it’s  _ your _ call, seem fair?” 

“But sometimes…”

“We’ve got a pretty smart team who can improvise a lot. I think they’ll be able to find ways to avoid splitting us up.” Jack smiles. “From now on, we’re both gonna put our feet down. If I’m not on an op, neither are you. Where you go, I go. Until you decide you get sick of your old man hovering.” 

Mac chuckles weakly. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Just giving you an out if it does,” Jack says, smoothing his hand through Mac’s sweaty hair again. 

“One other thing to confess, as long as we’re getting things off our chests,” Mac says, gulping and wiping a hand across his tear-stained face. Jack’s heart lurches.  _ What now, kiddo? _

Mac suddenly grins. “Desi told us about the camels.” 


	22. Feelings+Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title will make more sense if you've seen episode 4.10 (and I guess is also a teeny tiny spoiler for that), but I promise this one will make sense anyway if you haven't seen season 4 yet.

###  Feelings+Soup

**Post 3.20- No Go+High Voltage+Rescue**

OCTOBER 2007

_ Desi flings her duffel bag down on the floor of her cramped little CIA issue apartment, wincing at the tug against the stitches in her arm. “You don’t have to stay. The stuff that was making me see pink elephants has worn off.” She’s only slightly exaggerating. Whatever those guys gave her (toxicology had a name for it but she was too loopy at the time to listen to what it was) was strong. Everything was really vivid. Not real, but vivid. _

_ “Trust me, that stuff messes you up longer than you think it will.” Jack says, tossing his own bag beside hers. “Besides, it was your first time. And…” He doesn’t say more, but Desi gets the feeling she wasn’t a pretty sight when he dragged her out of that room. If what was going on inside the vivid hallucinations is anything to go by, she probably thought he was a slime creature trying to drag her underwater.  _ I knew I should never have watched those bad horror movies at high school sleepovers. 

_ “It was just a bad trip. People have them.” She didn’t do anything in high school aside from trying a friend’s marijuana blunt once on a dare and hating it, but she knew kids who were into some pretty hard stuff, and there was a dealer who lived in the apartment directly underneath her family’s. Desi’s seen what happens when people get totally freaked out and start seeing things that aren’t there.  _

_ She’d never thought that sounded like a good time. For all that she’s a major adrenaline junkie she still likes to feel like she has control of a situation. Getting lost inside her own head didn’t sound like a fun way to spend a Friday night. But it’s one thing to turn down an invitation to the high school party everyone knows is going to be livened up with a few recreational drugs. The Croatian terrorists Jack rescued her from weren’t the sort to take no for an answer. _

_ “Des, the first time you get tortured…” _

_ “It wasn’t torture. Spy school was more intense than that.” Physically, anyway.  _

_ Jack sighs. “Desi, that was a torture session. Just because you didn’t get beaten up or waterboarded, doesn’t mean they weren’t doing things you didn’t want, to try and make you talk.” He glances at her. “People like us, we can handle taking the hits. But when they get in our heads…” _

_ “They didn’t get in my head.” Desi says, more sharply than she meant it to come off. “That was the point. I didn’t give them anything.” Three minutes after she went under, she reverted to speaking Vietnamese, and that lasted until she’d been in medical for an hour. Jack insists he’s going to double down on his efforts to learn it. _

_ “No, Des. That’s not the point.” Jack’s hands are warm on her shoulders. “The point is, those people did something that hurt you. And that’s not okay.” _

_ “It’s what I signed on for.” Desi shrugs. “I’m fine, and the op was a success. I just want to make myself some dinner and go to bed.”  _

_ “I can order us something in, you don’t have to try and make food for us.” _

_ “No…” Desi says. She doesn’t want takeout. She needs to cook. “I’m gonna make soup.” _

_ “Soup?” Jack asks.  _

_ “It’s how I decompress.” She grabs the rice noodles out of the cupboard and a large pot out from the pantry. “In my family we don’t talk about our feelings. We just make soup.” _

_“Well, then, how ‘bout we put a pot on and you can tell me all about it while we’re cooking, how’s that?”_ _Jack smiles. “Because in my family, we make chili, and we_ do _talk about our feelings.”_

_ Desi almost drops the pot.  _ Did he just refer to me as family? _ She doesn’t really want to dive into that right now, though, so she just hands the pot to Jack. “Here, you can fill this up with water.” She opens her fridge, digging around for the ingredients she needs. “Ready to see how to make an authentic  _ Bún Riêu _?”  _

* * *

PRESENT DAY

NOT A PINK ELEPHANT OR SLIME MONSTER IN SIGHT

“Oh you can’t be serious. You brought that?” Jack asks, pointing to the case of ginger ale Desi is busily loading into the fridge. 

“Do you know how hard it is to find Vernors on the west coast?” Desi asks. “I am stocking up while I can.” She sets down the empty box, only to watch Mickey rush up and grab it, racing away into the living room with the cardboard thudding into the furniture in his way, and Carlo following him, trying to keep up. 

“In our fridge?”

“This is where I spend most of my evenings anyway.” Desi shrugs. 

“Well, at least you know it’s safe from thieves,” Jack mutters. “I don’t know what your obsession with that stuff is.” He shakes his head. “First Cage and the Australian beer, now you and your ginger ale.”

“Cage as in…Samantha Cage?” Desi asks, turning around with two cans still in her hand. “I knew she dropped the CIA to join some other black budget agency…that was you?” 

“Wait, you knew Sam?” Riley asks, stepping into the kitchen with two empty beer bottles in her hand. 

“Ran an op with her in Seoul. She had a lot of connections with the Pacific area criminal scene.” Desi sets the cans of ginger ale in the fridge and closes the door. “Does she still work with you?”

“Yeah. She’s just on a long term asset acquisition,” Jack says. “Training some kid we picked up on an op a while back.” 

“Tell me when she’s going to come back,” Desi says. “We have some…unfinished business.” She grins at the widened eyes. “Prank war. She drew first blood. I’m just gonna finish it.”

“Oh not you too!” Riley says. “She was my roommate for a year. Her prank war game is  _ insane. _ ” She grabs a bottle out of the fridge and opens it, then hands another one to Jack. “Your fiancée is asking for seconds. And I got the feeling she was looking for a specific person to bring it.” 

Desi grins, watching Jack retreat to the deck with the bottle in hand. “Him and your mom, huh?” She asks, turning back to the stove to check the progress of her  _ Bún Riêu _ . “How’d that happen? Last I remembered he was all starry eyed for Agent Adler.”

“Till she got married,” Riley says, setting her bottle down and leaning on the counter. “He dated my mom for a while when we first got partnered. I busted up my hand punching the absolute dirtbag she was dating at the time, and he somehow decided even an out-of-the-field injury was his responsibility to help me deal with.”

Desi chuckles. “That’s Jack.” She doesn’t know how many times he’s insisted on dropping everything and being there for her.  _ For a while it bothered me. I thought he felt like I couldn’t handle things myself. _ And then she’d learned that it wasn’t about what Jack thought his teammates could or couldn’t handle. It was about family. Because it seems like everyone Jack touches gets adopted in some way or another. 

“They broke it off after a while, cause he couldn’t tell her why he was really missing dates and stuff.” Riley shrugs. “But then…long story short there wasn’t any hiding it anymore, and now she’s been read in on the Phoenix and she and Jack are planning their wedding.” She smiles. “It’s nice to see them both happy.”

Desi nods, then leans in over the pot. “Might want to tell them this is just about ready.” 

“You didn’t have to cook for us,” Riley says. 

“Oh, but I’m enjoying it.” Desi says, raising the dripping spoon. “Besides, I’m not cooking everything. Bozer’s making pineapple rolls.” She waves to the stove. 

“They smell fantastic. Everything does.” Riley says, but Desi sees the hand with a spoon moving toward the pot. She reacts with her ingrained agent reflexes, using her own spoon to knock Riley’s out of her hand. 

“You’re gonna need to be faster than that,” She chuckles. “Or butter me up a little more.” She grins. Riley retreats, and Desi can hear her shouting out onto the deck that dinner is almost ready. She grins as at the word ‘dinner’ Mickey and Carlo immediately drop the box they were playing tug of war with, and race to their bowls.  _ Sorry about the cardboard scraps all over your house, Mac. _

Bozer pulls out a tray of perfectly browned pineapple rolls, while Thornton (who’s insisting on being referred to as Patty tonight, which is making Desi’s head spin a little) digs an apple salad out of a cooler bag and Matty produces some tupperware containers of what appear to be several varieties of homemade cookies.

Mac still looks a little shaky, according to Jack he was running that fever for several  _ weeks _ and it’s only improved in the past twenty-four hours.  _ Of course he didn’t say anything. _ She’s quickly learned that Mac will try to stay out of Medical unless he’s actively dying. He steps up beside the stove to grab a stack of bowls, and glances into the pot. “That smells good.” His smile is genuine. 

She has to admit she wasn’t entirely sure he’d want to see her again. Maybe ever. Calling Jack and asking if they’d be okay with her coming over and making soup was one of the scariest things she’s done, and that’s saying something, because her life is pretty full of things that would make most people turn around and run the other way.  _ But this is different. _ Selling an undercover is playing pretend. Doing a job. Clearing the air with Mac feels a lot more important, because it’s real.  _ I don’t want him to trust me because it’s a job. I want him to trust me because I want us to be friends. _

Somehow her plans to come make soup so Jack didn’t have to cook by himself for a sick Mac turned into a full-scale family dinner. Riley and Bozer couldn’t be left out, and then of course there was Diane, and if Matty found out there was a party and she wasn’t invited, Desi thinks that wouldn’t be the most fun conversation. She’s not sure why Oversight is here, but apparently she really got attached to this particular team. 

So far, she’s been in the house for four hours and Mac hasn’t hid, run away, or actively avoided her. In fact, he seemed absolutely fascinated by the water spinach splitter she was using earlier. She saw him looking it over after she was done with it; she wonders if she’ll have to tell him to keep his hands off her kitchen utensils like Jack needs to with his phone.  _ Jack said he wouldn’t hold things against me, and he didn’t seem to before, but… _ she would have completely understood if he’d been humiliated after what happened in that basement and never wanted to look at her again.  _ If all I was to him was a reminder of that. _

She grabs Riley’s spoon, from her failed attempt at a taste test, off the counter. “Here, want to try it, see if it needs anything?” She spoons out a small amount of broth and noodles, and hands it to him. He blows on it for a moment before sticking it in his mouth.

“I’m not sure what it’s  _ supposed  _ to taste like, but I think it’s good,” He says after a moment.

“Hey, I saw that,” Riley says. 

“Well, you’ll get special privileges if you’re the sick one next time,” Desi says, watching Mac drop the spoon in the sink. He sets the bowls on the table and sits down, and Mickey runs to his side, pressing up against his leg. Desi smiles as Carlo whines at being abandoned by his playmate, then waddles up to her and flops down on her feet. 

“Alright, dinner is served,” Desi says, turning to the table. “Bring a bowl over…and try not to trip over Carlo.” The dog looks up at her with mournful big brown eyes. 

Once Desi finishes dishing out the soup, and making herself a bowl as well, she sits down at the table next to Bozer. Matty pours them all drinks and hands the glasses around, and Patty stands up at the head of the table with hers. 

“To the Phoenix.” Patty raises her glass. “You ignited something amazing.” She smiles at Jack, Mac, and Riley. “And that fire’s been burning for three years. No matter how dark things have gotten. All of us have kept that fire burning, joining and adding our own sparks.” Her smile widens, and Desi can sense that she’s been included here. “All of us have risen from the ashes in our own ways. So here’s to us. To the Phoenix.” 

Desi raises her glass of ginger ale with a grin. “To the Phoenix!” Glasses clink around the table, and the room feels warm, like there’s a genuine fire burning between all of them. There’s something special about these people, about this place. Even though she hasn’t been here that long, she can feel it. That something about this little...family, is special. 

She can sense the lingering tension between Jack and Matty. There was a conversation in the corner of the living room while she was starting the soup, and she heard some heated words. She can tell they’re working things out, but it will most likely be a slow process. She knows both of them, and both of them are stubborn. But they’re trying to fix it. She’s seen lesser disagreements shatter teams. But something about this one is strong enough to weather the storms that the job throws at them. 

There’s unanimous agreement from the table, in the first five minutes, that Desi’s cooking is phenomenal. She grins and ducks down over her own bowl. She’s used to being praised for her field skills, not her domestic ones.  _ At least I’m doing Ba and Ma proud. _

Actually, everything is amazing. Desi eats until her stomach feels a little too full, but the whole team is off ops until Mac’s cleared again, so she can just sleep in tomorrow anyway. It’s strange to actually have downtime.  _ There was never any when I was undercover. Twenty-four seven I had to be mission focused.  _ Moments like this were few and far between, and never with a team that felt as much like family as this one does. 

She leans across the table to Jack. “Thank you.” It’s thanks to him that she got a second chance here. That she met these people and found a place with them. 

“For what? You cooked,” Jack says. “You know, I have tried for years to make this and I never figured out how you did it. Even though I watched you make it more than once.” 

“Tricks o’ me trade,” She says, turning one of Jack’s favorite phrases back onto him with a grin. “I have to keep some secrets.”

“Yeah, well, clearly not the camels.” 

Mac and Riley burst out laughing, and Riley snorts so hard she gets water up her nose and rushes off to the bathroom, still giggling. 

“Camels?” Patty asks. 

“I do not want to talk about it.” Jack shakes his head. “Now can we get to dessert?”

Matty turns out to be an incredible baker. Desi wants to try one of each of the types of cookies she brought, but she has the feeling that would be a terrible idea. She settles for a crisp almond one and something that tastes like it has ginger in it. 

Jack and Diane insist on handling the dish washing, shooing the rest of the guests out onto the deck. Desi grins when she sees Jack scoop up a handful of soap suds and flick some at Diane, who retaliates by squirting him with the little sprayer next to the faucet.

She wanders out onto the deck, where Mac is rebuilding the fire from where it had burned down to coals while they were inside. Riley and Bozer are playing ping-pong on a table, the rhythmic clack of the ball on the paddles broken only by the rattle of the ball on the floor and shouts as the two of them chase whichever dog decided it was fair game. 

Patty and Matty are pulling out a chess set, and apparently also having an argument about whether that counts as work related or not.  _ Strategy games are so much wilder when you’re playing against spies. _ Desi thought she was good at them until she got the to Farm, and game nights became a whole new level of cutthroat. 

“Your house feels homey.” Desi says, sitting down beside Mac. “I haven’t seen a place with a firepit since the cabin up north.” 

Mac smiles, arranging the a couple more chunks of wood in the ring. “Grandpa was originally from Minnesota. I think he built something that reminded him of home when he moved out here.” He pokes at the coals with a small stick, then grabs some dried leaves that are laying against the woodpile. “I’d do something more fun but Jack banned me from using kitchen supplies on the fire after I singed my eyebrows off.” He tucks the leaves against the coals, and the fire flares up. 

The fire reflects in Mac’s eyes, flickering like it’s inside him too.  _ If anyone embodies what the Phoenix means, it’s him.  _ She gets the feeling that it’s really thanks to him that the Phoenix is what it is. That it was him that ignited the first spark that made them who they are. 

“Kitchen supplies, huh?” Desi asks. “And here I was thinking you were the kind who rubs two sticks together.” 

Mac shrugs. “I mean, Jack did teach me how to do that…but it’s more fun to use things that make explosions.” 

“Yeah, I’m with you. Following the rules can get a little boring. I was in girl scouts.” Desi says, grinning. “I lasted a year before I was told I was...too disruptive. I kept bringing live animals into the meetings. I think the salamander that ended up in the bathroom was the last straw.”

“I got kicked out of boy scouts for setting our troop leader’s car on fire.” Mac sighs. 

“I’m not surprised.” Desi chuckles. “Guess neither of us are much good at coloring inside the lines.”

“Probably why we work here and not a real think tank.” Mac hands her a paperclip bent into the shape of the state of Michigan. “Here, I’ve been trying this one for a while. I still can’t get the Upper Peninsula right. That’s one’s a lot harder.” 

Desi grins. She holds the paperclip up to the light of the fire, then pulls out her necklace chain from around her throat. Mac watches the bullet casing on it catch the light as well. 

“Picked this up after I cleared the sniper nest I took my first shot from.” She twirls the chain around her finger. “It’s sort of been my lucky charm ever since.”

Mac pulls out Jack’s dog tags. “Started wearing them around my neck again this week.” He smiles. “I guess...facing the past kind of let me move on.” He traces the scar around his neck and rests his hand on the one over his heart. 

Desi slides the gap in the paperclip wire around the chain, twisting the top of the mitten just a little so it stays on the chain. It clinks against the bullet casing, and she smiles. “In this line of work, I guess you can never have too many lucky charms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. That water spinach splitter is a real thing...and DEFINITELY looks like something Mac would be fascinated by! I'm having too much fun googling Vietnamese kitchen utensils, honestly.


	23. Headstones+Hand Pumps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After spending the morning planting flowers at family gravesites, this little idea came to me and wouldn't let go. Happy Memorial Day!

###  Headstones+Hand Pumps

**Somewhere in Season 3**

“Hey Gramps.” Riley chuckles, leaning over to fist-bump the headstone in front of her with one gardening-gloved hand. “Be glad I talked them outta the pink flowers.” 

Mac, walking up behind her with a flat of plants in his hand, shakes his head.

“They were coral!” Jack insists. “That’s not pink!”

“Still. I think the red is going to look better.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you actually did work for an interior design company,” Diane says, setting down a jug of water and pulling on her own gloves. “I would pay good money just to listen to the pair of you bicker about color schemes.”

“Yeah, well, when I met your daughter she wore purple lipstick. It didn’t go with the shade of her face at  _ all. _ So I think her eye for color should defer to mine.” Riley chuckles.  _ I remember that. _ She’d thought it was surprisingly thoughtful that Jack’s critique of her goth queen phase was limited to offering a color that he thought would be more flattering to her skin tone. She has to admit the warmer burgundy he’d bought and given to her later that week was much better suited. She still keeps a tube of that same shade. Her style has changed plenty, but sometimes she still feels like rocking ripped leggings and a studded leather jacket, and the lipstick is for those days. 

Today she’s wearing jeans with no holes for once, she’d rather not get her knees filthy digging up the small flower plot around Jack’s dad’s grave. 

Jack sits down across from the headstone and Riley steps back to give him some space. She knows he wants to talk for a little.

“So Pops, I think you’d be real proud of me today.” Jack says, grinning. “I mean, I know you are, but hey, take a look at that ring on the lovely young lady over there.” Diane stifles a giggle and blushes. “I know you’d have told me to man up and do that a long time ago. Probably woulda cuffed me on the head and drove me to her doorstep. But I finally got around to it.” He chuckles. “And she didn’t turn me down, which to be honest is a little bit of a shocker.” 

Diane shakes her head, walking over and shoving Jack’s shoulder. “You raised a good man, Jack Sr.,” She says, smiling at the headstone and the name carved there. “I sure wish I could have met you. But if Jack’s anything like you, I already know we would have gotten along.” 

Jack grabs her hand, letting her pull him back to his feet. “Okay, enough jawing. Time for ya’ll to get to work.” He shoves Mac’s shoulder playfully, and Mac grins. 

Riley starts working up the soil, tossing aside weeds and grass, while Mac pulls the flowers out of their tray and breaks up the bottom of the root sections when Diane informs him of the existence of ‘root binding’. Riley’s pretty sure Mac already knew that was a thing, but he doesn’t bother to say that, just lets Mom show him how to tug at the bottom of the plant to make sure the roots don’t just keep curling in on themselves, the way they do when they’re stuck in a pot that’s too small for them.

She leans back and sighs, watching Mac work.  _ It’s not just plants, it’s people, too. _ Mac’s time spent trying to make himself small and invisible around James, and then the two years locked in a ten-by-ten cell, made  _ him _ curl in on himself. Unable to grow or even have a healthy life in the face of just trying to survive. 

Now that he’s free of all that, he can finally thrive. It hurt, if plants can feel pain Riley’s sure breaking up the tangled root systems is a painful process, but in the end, it’s the only way for him to move on. 

When Mac tosses a small clump of potting soil at her and asks where the planting holes are, she shakes herself out of her thoughts and goes back to digging. Once the flowers are in the holes and some dirt is packed around them, she turns around, holding out her hand. “Jack? Water?”

Jack reaches for the milk jug, but then jumps and  _ yelps. _ The jug topples over, water glugging out into the grass.

“Jack, what was that?” Mac asks.

“Snake. Scared the hell outta me,” Jack says. “Sorry pops. Yeah, I’ll wash out my mouth later.” He picks up the jug, which now has  _ maybe  _ a cup of water left in it. Not nearly enough for all the geraniums he insisted they needed for the gravesite. 

“Darn it,” Jack mumbles. “Okay, who’s gonna go all the way back to the gas station for water?”

“We don’t have to,” Mac says, nodding toward an old-style green hand pump in the back of the cemetery.

“Hey, I don’t know, but I’m going blind in my old age and I can  _ still _ see that big sign over top that says it’s out of order,” Jack says. Riley can see it too, in massive red letters on a white board on the side of the shed next to the pump. 

“Has that ever stopped me before?” Mac asks, standing up. “As long as it doesn’t say ‘for decorative purposes only’ I’m pretty sure I can do something about that.”

“Yeah, until we get in trouble for damaging cemetery property.” Jack follows him, and Riley and Diane do as well. 

By the time they catch up, Mac’s working the handle of the pump, frowning. “I can hear the mechanism, but it looks like it’s not creating a vacuum.” He turns around and starts picking the padlock on the shed door.

“Hey, hey what gives?” Jack asks. “We’re gonna get in trouble.”

“Not if I fix their pump.” Mac grins. “I need a toolbox to get those bolts undone, and there should be one in there.” He undoes the lock and opens the door. “Okay...there.” He pulls out a wrench and starts disassembling the pump itself, pulling out some of the pieces. 

“Well, there’s the problem right there. Pump seal’s worn out.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a bandanna (he’s taken to tying his hair back with them sometimes while he works, apparently putting it in a ponytail was giving him headaches) and starts tearing the cloth with his knife, wrapping it around the plunger of the pump. “This will make an airtight seal once it’s wet.” He smoothes the cloth with his fingers. “Got to make sure there’s no wrinkles. It has to be smooth. Jack, can I have that jug?” He asks. He pours a little of the water on the cloth, and Riley watches it darken as it soaks up the water. “Okay, we’ll use what’s left to prime the pump and hope it works.” He reassembles the mechanism, checking to make sure his makeshift seal stays in place and also fits inside. “Alright, I’ll bolt it down just enough to make sure it’ll seal, and we can test it.”

He begins shoving the handle up and down, and it takes a minute or so, but suddenly water is gushing out. 

“You did it!” Riley laughs. Jack sticks the jug under, then his head.

“That says it’s not safe for drinking,” Diane insists. 

“Wasn’t drinking it, just cooling off.” Jack chuckles. 

Riley grabs handfuls of the water, splashing it on her own face. It feels good to wash away the sweat and the dirt that smeared on when she wiped stray strands of hair out of her face. The water is cold and she tosses a handful of it at Mac, who jumps and gasps. 

She runs the handle long enough for him to stick his own head under and then shake like a dog, splattering all of them. Jack hauls the water back to the grave and pours it over the plants, then stands back, folding his arms and looking down at their work. 

“Nice job, kiddos,” He says. “Hey, Pops? You remember that old pump out back of the barn? If we’d had Mac around back then, we wouldn’t have had to stop using it.” He chuckles, ruffling Mac’s soaked hair. “Yeah, I bet you’re proud of him. So am I.”

“Anyone think we should take down the ‘Out of Service’ sign up there?” Riley asks. 

“Sure.” Mac grins. “That fix ought to hold for a good while.”

Riley’s just pulling a screwdriver out of the toolbox in the shed to undo the screws when Diane shouts. “There’s someone coming in a truck!”

“That looks like a groundskeeper truck. Probably coming out here to set flags,” Jack says. 

“Oh-kay.” Riley tosses the screwdriver back in the box, slams the lid and pulls the door shut behind her. “That is our cue to  _ run!” _

She hopes no one bothers to be mad at the vandals who only fixed a broken pump. Maybe they can come back later for the sign. 

“Don’t trip over anyone!” Jack shouts as they high-tail it for the Toyota, chased by a man with a grey mustache wielding a rather un-threatening leaf rake.

Riley laughs. Harder and longer than she’s laughed in a long time.  _ I think Gramps would be laughing the hardest of all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is in fact a really old hand pump in the cemetery where my family is buried. Ours, thankfully, works.


	24. Mac+Cold Turkey

###  Mac + Cold Turkey

**Missing Scene from 3.01 - Improvise**

Jack would like to strangle Murdoc slowly with his bare hands for what he’s done to Mac. Watching the thin, pale boy in the hospital bed, thrashing and shivering and moaning as the drug Murdoc dosed him with works its way out of his system, Jack feels empty and cold and angry.

They can’t narrow down exactly what the drugs were that Murdoc was giving Mac, which means they can’t taper him off of it slowly; and given that it was a cocktail of messed up things, they can’t even use the counteractive drugs that are designed to make withdrawal symptoms less severe.  _ I know the risks of something interacting and making things worse, but it’s hard to watch him suffer and think maybe there’s a way to stop it, or at least ease the pain.  _ Dr. Grey says they’re just going to have to hope quitting Mac immediately doesn’t have dangerous side effects. Jack almost wants to ask what ‘dangerous’ means when the kid’s spiking a 103 fever and can’t stop crying from the pain. Then again, he probably doesn’t want to hear it out loud anyway. He’s already thinking it. Murdoc had Mac for nearly three months. Based on that call Jack got back at the beginning of all this, he’d started drugging Mac less than a couple weeks into his captivity. Which means Mac’s body has had time to adjust to having the constant presence of whatever this is in him. And is going to have to relearn how to function without it. 

Jack’s no stranger to addiction. He watched Sid Lanier spend a year and a half in and out of rehab programs after they got back, struggling to live with the memories and guilt, trying to find oblivion in the bottom of a bottle. He remembers his cousin Cody trying heroin in high school, getting hooked, and taking years to get clean.  _ He traded in one needle for another when he opened his tattoo shop. _ Jack knows the first ink Cody got was that big piece of flowers growing out of a skull on the inside of his left arm, covering up years’ worth of track marks. 

But he never thought Mac would be the one he’d have to watch suffering through a painful withdrawal.  _ I used to think it would most likely be me, reaching for a bottle when I couldn’t take things anymore, before I met this team, found this family.  _ Mac had survived a hellish life without turning to something that might temporarily let him forget. Jack hadn’t considered the possibility someone else might not give him the choice. He knows this has happened to other agents. It’s a torture technique, and a particularly cruel one. But…he’s never seen it up close and personal. 

All he can do is sit with Mac, try to soothe the kid through nightmares and pain, try and coax him to eat. He’s taken over the medical staff’s attempts to give Mac a sponge bath and administer antibiotic injections, both of which have sent Mac into a state of sheer panic. Jack feels sick knowing why, but at least Mac seems to know and trust him, even if the kid shivers and shakes the whole time. Jack can’t fix anything, but he can hopefully make things easier for Mac until he does recover. And he can try to hang onto hope. Mac hasn’t let anything beat him yet. Jack sincerely hopes this isn’t the first time for it. Because if it is, it might also be the  _ last _ time. 

* * *

Bozer knows what withdrawal looks like. He knows what addiction looks like. There were strung-out junkies on practically every corner of his childhood neighborhood. Momma had always warned him and Jerry and Deja never to touch that stuff.  _ Not even once, _ she’d said, steering them away from the empty-eyed, dull-haired people shivering or moaning.  _ It ruins your life. _

And then after Jerry died she fell into a bottle and never came out. There’s still a little teenage piece of Bozer that resents that.  _ So we couldn’t give in, but you could? _ Still, he’s made his peace with that, and he’s never touched anything drug-related. Aside from the painkillers he’s had to take when he’s in medical, and he’s always careful with those.

Still, he finds it easier to think about himself going down that road than watching it be Mac. He knows this is Murdoc’s fault, Mac didn’t choose to start taking this drug and he certainly didn’t choose to become addicted to it. But some piece of Momma’s moralizing won’t leave his head.  _ I always got the feeling she somehow thought those people were weak. For taking a drug to cope rather than just plowing through and facing life head on.  _ And even after watching her succumb to alcoholism, a fragment of that early feeling remained.  _ Maybe because alcohol is a more acceptable and at least legal way to drown your problems. _

He hates that any part of him looks at Mac and even entertains those thoughts.  _ Murdoc forced him to take that drug. Mac is the strongest person I know. It’s me that’s weak and helpless right now. _

He wants to do something, anything, to make this better, but there’s nothing he can do. When Mac’s sick, Bozer can make soup, heat blankets in the dryer to soothe muscle aches, distract Mac by watching b-grade movies with him and listening to Mac critique alien science. 

But now, Mac can’t eat without throwing up, his body rejecting anything that isn’t Murdoc’s drug. Bozer can tell the aching is muscle and bone deep, given the tight expressions of pain on Mac’s face, but warm blankets are out of the question, because he’s also running such a high fever that they can’t risk making it worse and causing any more brain damage than the head injury already did. And Mac hasn’t spoken since they brought him in, aside from whimpers and moans and unintelligible muttering in his nightmares. 

Bozer can only stand to be in the room for so long. Eventually, the sight of Mac pale and still and hooked up to wires and tubes and monitors gets to him. He steps out into the hall, where Leanna, clearly still unsure of her place in the family, is sitting in a chair. She stands up to hug him, and she doesn’t say a thing when he starts to cry into her shoulder. 

* * *

Riley smoked in high school, junior year. Her punk friends were all doing it, and it seemed cool and rebellious. At first it sucked, but then she got used to it. She felt dangerous and grown up, for the five months until she quit.  _ One of my mom’s friends got lung cancer and I got scared. _ She’d tried to quit cold turkey and it had been horrible. She’d missed multiple days of school because she felt too terrible to get out of bed. It felt like having the flu, but nothing would make it better except lighting up again. So she had. It took two more attempts and then some research and a slow tapering off to get back out of that hole.  _ I should have known better than to ever start. _

She’d watched Elwood after drunken binges, the few times he actually made an effort to get clean. It was messy. Addiction, no matter what it is, isn’t an easy cycle to break. 

She knows a little of what Mac must be going through. But she can only imagine it’s so much worse than nicotine. Murdoc had obviously spent time creating something that would hook Mac fast and force him to keep taking more. They can’t be sure what its purpose was aside from making Mac unable to escape.  _ Probably it made him too delirious and weak, and then… _ she hates the thought that Murdoc might have let Mac experience these withdrawal symptoms at some point to make him feel like leaving would kill him.  _ Maybe he told him it would. _

Dr. Grey seems optimistic that with close monitoring and non-pharmaceutical treatments, Mac will eventually pull through.  _ But if he’d been on his own, without medical to help him, thinking going to a hospital would mean getting sent to prison… _ Riley wishes she didn’t have the image in her head of Mac alone and suffering, trying to ride out this misery in some abandoned house, or worse yet, an alley or a ditch.  _ Without a doctor, he actually might have died.  _

Murdoc is sick, using drugs to keep Mac on his leash like that. She’s glad that somewhere in the haze of amnesia and drugs, Mac remembered that Jack would always, always help him.  _ If he hadn’t called us, if he’d just tried to run… _ Mac could easily have become just another dead addict on the Bogota streets. 

She sits down beside Mac’s bed, reaching out to run a hand gently over one of his hands. The fingers twitch and tremble restlessly, and at this point Dr. Grey can’t tell them if that’s a side effect of the withdrawal or the head injury. As devastating as the thought is, Riley hopes it’s the first option. Because if this continues after Mac’s recovery…she hates the idea that he might end up being unable to do what he’s always done.  _ His mind and his hands are his most valuable tools.  _ If Murdoc took those away from him…

She doesn’t like the tiny thought that scampers around her brain before she shoos it away with a furious push.  _ Maybe this won’t be the last time we see this happening to Mac. And maybe next time, it’ll be because he chose to turn to a drug.  _

* * *

It hurts. It’s not close to the first time Mac’s experienced the painful symptoms of withdrawal from Murdoc’s drug, but it’s by far the worst. Murdoc only ever let it last a few hours. A day, at most, and only the first time, when he warned Mac that this was what he would experience if he ever ran away.  _ He told me I would die slowly and painfully. _ It hadn’t stopped Mac from trying to run, at the time even death sounded better than what Murdoc was doing to him. But…now he’s not so sure. A quick death, maybe. But this is slow, agonizing torture. 

His bones hurt. Worse than when he’s had the flu, and he thought that was bad. It hurts to move, his joints feel like rusted metal grinding against itself every time he tries to shift in the bed. He shakes so much that his muscles are permanently sore, and he feels thirsty but whatever he drinks comes right back up, making his sore, raw throat even worse. 

He can’t sleep, but he also never really feels awake. He’s hovering somewhere in between, nightmares stalking him even while he’s awake, haunting him with a half-believable presence. He’s sat up screaming several times because he thought he saw Murdoc’s face looming over him, thought he felt the man’s hands on him. It’s not quite as horrifying when there’s nothing there as when his brain turned the face of one of his friends into that monster. He almost gave Riley a bloody nose when he flailed at her one of those times, and he bruised a nurse’s wrist when she touched him without warning.

He feels sick and confused and tired all the time, but there’s also a vibrating need under his skin. His body knows it’s missing something, and it keeps trying to tell him to get up and go get it. But he can’t, because what it wants is Murdoc’s drug. He wishes he’d known what it was, been able to figure it out, because all he needs is a little, just to take the edge off…

He shakes his aching head, turning to let his tears soak into the pillow.  _ He was right all along. I’m just a desperate junkie. That’s what he made me. _

Jack brushes his sweaty hair off his face, and the touch of his calloused fingers on Mac’s skin burns like fire. Mac tries to push his hand away, but his arms are so weak and it hurts too much to move. Instead, he just pulls his head away, trying to protest. But all that comes out is a garbled moan. 

Jack’s hand moves away, but returns holding a small bowl of something that should smell good, but just turns Mac’s stomach. 

“Mac, please, you have to eat something.” Jack says gently. “Just a few bites, okay?” 

Mac tries. But he just can’t. And when Jack gently swipes a clean, damp washcloth over his chin, Mac bursts into tears at the touch of the material against his face; even Jack’s gentleness hurts the hypersensitive skin, but worse yet it feels like the way Murdoc used to lift his head and force him to look Murdoc in the eyes. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget that. 

He’s never going to be able to escape those memories. They’re going to haunt him, they’re already hurting his family. He sees the way Jack looks when Mac flinches away from his touch.  _ It’s killing him to watch this, and even though I know he would never, never hurt me, I still feel scared.  _ He’s pathetic.  _ They might as well have left me with Murdoc. I’m ruined. _

* * *

Sam hovers. Not the way Jack hovers, coaxing, fretting, soothing, aching to do something and unable to fix this problem. Her hovering is more detached. Almost clinical. Trying to make sense of the garbled words that slip past Mac’s lips in the throes of his nightmares.

She knows the doctors here are trying to fix the physical problems Mac’s unwanted addiction has caused. But Sam is going to have to help pick up the mental pieces. And she wants the best knowledge she can going into that. Because there’s going to be a lot of pieces. And she doesn’t want to lose track of one in the shuffle.

Still, the job isn’t quite as daunting as it might be if this was anyone else. Because every time she’s come in here, another member of Mac’s little family has been here too. Jack, telling stories of his childhood and trying to coax Mac to eat soup. Riley, bending shapeless things out of paperclips and running her fingers over the back of Mac’s hand. Bozer, sharing plans for his movies and telling Mac how he tried to fix the fridge again. Matty, watching quietly and sometimes, when she thinks no one hears her, singing softly. Patty, snatching moments from her never ending job to look in, to brush some stray hair off Mac’s cheek. And Sam, for all her planning, cares too. She talks to him and tries to begin repairing the damage even as she wonders if he can hear her.

Some days she’s there for Mac, some days for the others. She and Riley may not be roommates anymore, but she’s glad Riley trusts her enough to confide in her. Bozer talks...well, to everyone, but he’s come to her more and more, since she doesn’t become as outwardly emotional about the situation as Jack or Riley. Jack doesn’t want to talk, at first, but after Sam catches him stepping out into the infirmary hall and punching the wall, she finally gets something approaching a genuine conversation.  _ This is killing him. There’s nothing to fight and no one to be angry at, at least not in this room. _ Sam wants to get her hands on Murdoc too. But right now, she has to make sure it’s not his fault this team falls apart.  _ If that happens, he wins. _

It’s a slow healing process. Even as Mac recovers, the bad days continue to outweigh the good. It hurts, watching him cry, or seeing him in pain, or even worse, watching him blame himself for something that was never, never his fault. 

Bit by bit, Sam and the others are doing their best to help him see the truth, and it’s an uphill battle, especially the days Mac doesn’t want to talk about it at all.  _ He actually thinks the fact that he was addicted is his fault, and possibly even worse, he blames himself for being afraid of his teammates.  _ Sam tries to make him think it through, reminding him to think about what he knows about chemical addiction and the physical responses to it. She asks Jack to tell Mac about the time he almost snapped a teammate’s wrist after he got captured and tortured for a week when he was in the Deltas, and tells him her own memories of startling awake, grabbing for a throat or reaching for a weapon, unable to feel safe for months, even years, after she left Scorpion. She reminds him he wouldn’t say the same things he does about himself about any of the rest of his team. And eventually, eventually, she’s starting to see progress. 

_ It’s not okay now, and it won’t be okay for a long time. But someday, we have a shot at it being okay _ then. And until then, Mac’s little family will have his back. No matter what. This, she knows for sure. 


	25. Mac-Sight

### Mac - Sight

**Post-3.22 History+Cable+Choices**

Mac didn’t realize how much he would miss being able to see until he has to live without it. 

He’s always had a vague fear of losing his sight, especially since he joined Phoenix and started dealing with all sorts of weird and dangerous chemicals and situations. He’d been terrified, when Murdoc took him, that he’d blind Mac permanently just because he wanted him to suffer. _I wouldn’t have put it past him, but I guess he needed me more or less intact._ Which still makes Mac cringe. _He could actually have been worse, but he needed me alive and in good enough condition to help him get his son back._ The thought that if Murdoc had had no other motives, he could have made Mac’s life even worse is sickening. So Mac tries not to go there.

He’s glad this isn’t permanent. His eyes are recovering well, apparently, and it’s just a concern for light sensitivity that means he needs to keep them covered now. With the pre-existing brain trauma and migraines, the doctors are being careful.

It’s not as bad as it could be. He has Jack and Diane around to help him, and he’s willing to _ask_ for help. If there’s one good thing that’s come out of everything he’s been through, it’s learning that he doesn’t need to be alone anymore. Ever since his mom died, he’d learned to protect himself by isolating himself, that being alone meant he couldn’t be hurt. Prison hadn’t taught him any different. But now, he has people who care. People who are willing to help him. He just had to learn to let them in. 

Diane’s already mostly moved out of her apartment, and Sam is planning on moving in there as soon as she gets back from training Eileen. Mac finds the way living spaces tend to just get shuffled around the team kind of amusing. Bozer’s in Jack’s old apartment, Jack is in Mac’s house, and now Sam will be in Mom’s old place. 

Mac is glad he’s living in a place he knows. It makes things a little easier. He can at least find his way to the bathroom in the night without having to wake one of his parents up and ask for help. And Mickey has learned to stay out of the way, only needing a couple unfortunate collisions to learn his lesson. He’s taken to pressing in beside Mac, trying to maneuver him. Mac wonders if it’s the herding breed in him that makes him do it. _He’s no seeing eye dog, but he’s trying._

He can feel sun on his face, which means he should probably get up. He can smell Diane’s coffee in the kitchen, she’s taken a couple weeks off her job, but she’s working from home still. The sound of fingers tapping on the keys gets louder as he navigates down the hall, feeling Mickey’s tail smack against the backs of his legs. 

"Good morning, Mac," Diane says, and Mac can tell she's stopped typing. There's the scrape of a chair pushed back, but her steps are hesitant. He knows why; he was screaming in his nightmares last night about Murdoc. Diane always seems like she feels helpless in the wake of the trauma Mac's gone through, and while she's there to be a supportive presence, she lets Jack talk. _I think she feels like he's more qualified, won't make things worse._ Mac knows it's going to take some time for her to feel as comfortable pulling him out of nightmares as Jack does. 

He can tell without looking that Jack is in the room too. There’s the faint smell of gun oil that never seems to leave his skin entirely, and Mac recognizes his breathing pattern. 

“Hey, kiddo, you’re awake.” Jack says, and Mac hears him walk closer. “You want a hug?”

Mac nods. He doesn’t like touch that comes with no warning, right now, but he wants to be held. Jack’s arms come up around his shoulders and stay there for a long time, until Mac begins to pull back.

“You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

Jack starts pulling things out of the fridge, Mac can hear the door open and the rustle and clunk of bags and containers being pulled out. Diane went through and organized it all one day, claiming it looked like raccoons live in there. 

_“Excuse us for having jobs that require us to save the world each week and every other weekend,”_ Jack had replied. It’s true, their work doesn’t leave a large amount of time for things like household chores. When they come home, cleaning and organizing are about the last things on their minds. But since they’re not going anywhere for a while, Diane has conscripted Jack to help get the house back into some form of orderliness. 

Jack’s phone rings while he’s setting what sounds like a skillet on the stove. “Hey, guys, it’s Desi.” He turns it on speaker and sets it on the table.

The daily updates from Riley and Desi are nice. They call when they can, and Mac likes hearing his sister’s voice, even if it is tinny through phone speakers. Mexico City was a dead end, and the pair have temporarily attached to the same task force Jack was originally requested for, with the promise that they’ll be home in another two weeks to start preparing for the wedding. 

Wherever they are in the world (they can’t give details), apparently it’s a good time to call. It’s at least better than the last time, when the phone rang at 3 am. Then again, that one was pretty critical, a ‘whatever you hear on the news, we are not dead’ call. 

“How are you guys?” Jack asks. 

“We’re fine. Well, Riley jumped out a third story window, she’s insane, but physically she’s alright.” 

“Riley Helene Davis!” Diane’s voice is almost a shriek. “What were you thinking?”

“There was a dumpster underneath it,” Riley says.

“That’s not a good plan, those can have some nasty stuff in there.” Mac’s speaking from experience. At least two of his scars are from things he didn’t see inside the piles of trash until he found them very painfully.

“It was the paper shred waste. I clocked it on the way in,” Riley says. “I was thinking about setting it on fire to try and create a diversion, but then Desi just knocked out the security guard at the back door, so we didn’t actually need it.” 

“That was…actually a really good plan.” Mac can’t fault her on that, he’d probably have done the same thing. _She and Desi are like me and Jack._ Mac’s always coming up with elaborate plans only for Jack to circumvent the whole problem with a simple right hook or nerve pinch. “But the important question…Your middle name is Helene?” Mac asks. He’s only ever seen an H. on even her official personnel file.

“Yes it is, _Angus._ ” _Okay, I probably deserved that._

“It’s a family name,” Riley adds, rather quietly. It sounds like she wants to sink into the floor. 

“More like ‘hellion’ if you ask me,” Desi adds, with a chuckle. 

“If you make one more joke about my name I will delete your existence from the world wide web.”

“Oooh, scary.”

“They’re going to murder each other,” Mac whispers to Jack. 

“Ah, no, they’re fine. That’s what she was like when she started working with me,” Jack says. 

“That assumes that she didn’t want to murder _you,_ ” Mac mumbles. 

“How’s Mac?” Riley asks, clearly trying to derail the rest of the conversation.

“I’m doing ok,” Mac says. “Doc says three more days with the bandages and then we can see how it goes. I might have to wear some strong sunglasses for a while.”

“Well, at least you’ll match Jack,” Desi says. “He and his sunglasses are practically inseparable.”

“Not after Mac broke my favorite pair,” Jack says with a chuckle. 

“Hey, I fixed those.”

“Well, we gotta go,” Desi says. “Rest of our team’s getting impatient. We haven’t caught up to Kovacs yet, but we’re chasing him out of all his best hiding holes, thanks to Riley and her tech magic. Sooner or later he’s gonna run out of safe houses and then we’ll have him.” 

“Be careful out there, you two,” Jack says. 

“We will,” Riley replies, and then the call ends with a beep. 

Jack goes back to the scraping and bumping that signifies breakfast-making, and Mom’s fingers tap even harder on her keyboard, backgrounded by the occasional mutter of ‘three floors, into a dumpster?’ Mac has the feeling Riley will be coming home to a very strong parental lecture. _She might decide she’d rather just keep chasing Kovacs forever._

Mac hears the rattle of plates being gathered, filled, and set on the table, and he feels for his chair, sitting down without a disaster, which he counts as a success. 

“Here, kiddo.” Jack’s hands cover his, helping him find the glass Jack just set on the table. Mac doesn’t resist the help this time, remembering vividly what a mess he made when it was his hands covered in bandages and he decided to do things on his own. That version of him feels like it existed a lifetime ago. Still so stubborn, still fearful that one of these days he’d turn around and the people he’d learned to count on would be gone. 

Once he knows where everything is, on the table and on his plate, he can more or less eat on his own. Once in a while his fork misses the plate and he stabs the tablecloth, or he misjudges the position of something on the plate and gets a mouthful of something he was not anticipating, but on the whole, he’s doing okay. 

“What time is it?” He asks Jack as they continue eating. _I should have asked them to set an alarm. I figured they’d come get me if it was getting too horribly late._

“It’s only nine forty-five, kiddo. We’re still doing fine.” 

He finishes as quickly as he can, then stands up. 

“I’m going to go get dressed,” He says. 

“We don’t have to leave till eleven to get there on time.” 

“It’ll take me that long to get ready,” Mac mumbles, dully. He still needs to shower, which he thankfully doesn’t need assistance with at his own house since he’s familiar with the bathroom, and he’ll need Jack’s help to shave, because that he can’t do on his own. And then getting dressed is a whole process when he has to compensate for not being able to see. 

It takes over half an hour to shower and shave, even as quickly as Mac tries to make it go. He tries to let himself relax as Jack shaves him, normally it’s pretty soothing. Jack’s hands are gentle, even as he’s holding a blade he could slit Mac’s throat with in two seconds. It still surprises Mac that even unable to see, even in a situation where his life could be threatened, he’s completely certain that Jack will never hurt him, ever. 

But today, he’s tense, and Jack comments on that even as he starts working up a thick lather of shaving soap across Mac’s face.

“You got that muscle jumping in your jaw again,” he observes, calloused fingers gentle as they sweep over the spot. “You worried?”

“Not worried, just…” Mac isn’t sure what he is. There’s a vibrating, thrumming tension in his veins that nothing is really easing. 

“You don’t have to go.”

Mac nods just a little, Jack doesn’t have the razor out yet so he’s not risking an accidental cut. “I need to though.”

“You can’t let him jerk your leash around from beyond the grave, you know that right?” Jack asks.

“That’s not what this is.” That, at least, Mac knows. “I just…I gotta do this. You know?”

“Can’t say I do, but I trust you. Now, I’m gonna start or we really will be late, okay?” And then there’s the cold smoothness of the metal blade against Mac’s cheek, and talking is out of the question. 

He’d asked Jack to lay his clothes out the night before so he didn’t show up with horribly mismatched colors. Jack jokes that Mac breaks all the rules anyway ‘blues and blacks? And even worse, black and _brown_ ? At the same _time?_ ’ but he agreed to do it. Mac just has to trust that he didn’t choose the weirdest things in Mac’s closet to put together. He doesn’t think Jack would do that to him. Not today.

He can dress by himself, but Jack still hovers. Mac knows it’s not really about the actual chore of getting his clothes on. _He thinks I’m making the wrong choice. That this isn’t going to be good for me._

“You sure you want to go to this thing? You can still say no.” Jack says, smoothing his hands over Mac’s shirt and buttoning one button Mac’s fingers must have missed. 

“I’m sure.” 

“Okay.” 

Mac sits down on his bed, stroking Mickey’s ears while he waits for Jack to change, and then follows him and Mom carefully out to the Toyota. Jack helps settle him in the back seat, and Mac listens to the scratch of tires pulling out of the driveway, the hum of the engine, and the radio when Jack switches it on to his favorite classic rock and starts singing along.

It’s strange how fast his world has narrowed to what he can observe with just four senses. He’d thought going blind would be infinitely harder. But…it probably would be if this was permanent. Still, when he’d thought about it before, he’d imagined he’d be alone. 

He’s going to heal. But if he never did…He knows he could survive it, because his whole family would be beside him, every step of the way. _They wouldn’t think I was useless. Or broken. Or anything less than the person they all love._

The thought feels like a warm blanket settling around his shoulders. _James is gone, but more importantly, so is most of what he did to me._ Mac knows there will still be bad days, still times he lets insecurity and worry get the best of him, but he’s also finally able to accept that he can be loved, unconditionally and for much, much more than how useful he can be. 

It’s why he insisted they have some sort of funeral. Jack thought it was more than James deserved, but for Mac it meant something, closure. James is gone, and Mac needs to bury him. He needs to be able to move on.

James is being buried in one of Phoenix’s black site cemetery locations. Like prison cemeteries, they’re the place where the bodies of people no one wanted to claim end up. Mac was always afraid that would be _his_ fate one day, with no family in the world left to care what happened. _But maybe the Bozers would have done something._ Jack says he thinks they would have. 

Mac couldn’t stand the thought of burying the monster who tried to destroy his life next to the mother who only ever loved him, and Jack was with him on that decision. 

When they get to the location, Jack parks and then helps Mac out of the truck, coaching him over the slightly uneven ground to the edge of the grave. 

It’s just him and Jack and Mom here. Bozer didn’t want to come, and Patty and Matty are both in Washington trying to get the Phoenix back up and running after everything. 

Jack promised not to say anything. He said this isn’t his day and he’s not going to be able to say anything good, so he’ll say nothing at all. He said he’ll be content with putting James literally in the ground, and it was such a _Jack_ thing to say Mac almost laughed. 

Mom’s just here for moral support, for both of them. Mac figures they’re going to need it. He heard Jack hand over the keys for the drive home. _He’s not going to want to leave my side, and I won’t want him to._

Mac rests a hand on the coffin, which is still up on the winch, waiting to be lowered into the hole in the ground. It’s just a plain, rough pine box, and he pulls his hand away with a flinch and shiver like it’s burned him. The last one did, and he doesn’t want to think further than that, because the last one contained the man who’s _become_ his father, in every way that matters. He doesn’t want to connect the two in his mind in any way. 

Jack starts the winch, and there’s a steady whine and thrum of cable as the coffin lowers into the ground. “You ready to do the honors, kid?” He asks when the machine’s whine rises in pitch and Mac hears the thwack of slack cable. 

There’s a crew of gravediggers that will fill in the hole. But the first handful of dirt is Mac’s to throw in. Jack turns his palm over, and Mac feels the cool, slightly damp earth in his fingers. He reaches out over the edge of the hole and lets it go. 

There’s a hollow thud that seems so much louder than it ought to be; Mac wonders if his ears are trying to compensate for his lack of sight. The rest of the dirt falls out of his fingers onto the coffin, and he sighs. He wishes it felt…more important somehow. But it’s just a handful of dirt. There’s no feeling of relief, no weight off his chest...nothing he was hoping for. James is dead and gone and Mac feels absolutely nothing at all. 

There’s a tiny part of him that feels guilty that he isn’t grieving. But he’s already done what little of that he’s capable of. He’s grieved the loss of a human life, of a person who might have had a chance to be someone else. And beyond that, James meant nothing anymore. _He wasn’t my father, he wasn’t part of my life. He was just another person we lost on an op._ And Mac spent as much time mourning him as he does any of the cartel members whose deaths he’d accidentally been responsible for. _I don’t like watching anyone die._ But that’s the most he can bring himself to feel. 

A much bigger part of him wishes there was…some earth-shattering feeling of release. That the man who’d pulled his puppet strings for so many years is finally no longer able to touch him. But instead of feeling free, he just feels as hollow and empty as the sound of the dirt hitting that coffin. He’d come here hoping to do something that meant something, and now he wonders if Jack is right, if this was a mistake. 

“You okay, kiddo?” Jack asks. Mac turns around, shaking his head. He’s not okay, not at all. “Come here, I got you.” Jack’s arms fold him into a warm, gentle hug. 

Mac lets himself be held, crying softly into Jack’s shirt. This is where he feels different. In what he’s found, not in what he’s burying. He doesn’t care that the tears are soaking the bandages over his eyes, running down and leaving cool tracks on his cheeks even then. 

“Ready to go home, kiddo?” Jack asks when Mac’s shaking sobs finally ease.

Mac nods. He is. He’s ready. For whatever the future holds.


	26. Names +Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't let Father's Day go by without writing SOMETHING for this little family! It's short, but I hope you enjoy!

###  Names + Fathers

**Post 3.22**

Jack’s always been proud to call himself a Dalton. While his family isn’t without its skeletons in the closet, it’s one he can honestly say he’s glad to belong to. Back home, it’s common knowledge that Daltons are good folk, the sort who will drop everything to come help push a tractor out of a ditch, birth a calf, or put out a fire. And every new generation feels like it’s their duty to keep the family traditions and values alive.

He’d wondered if Mac and Riley would want to change their names when he adopted them. After all, neither of them has too many good things associated with their birth fathers. He’d been sort hoping for having a couple kids to carry on the family name and tradition, at least in some way. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone, ever. He doesn’t expect that  _ from _ his kids. It’s not their job to be anything for their parents. Still, he’s always wanted to be able to look them in the eye and tell them what their name means around home. Who they are. Where they belong. Because above all, to Jack, being a Dalton means having a place to call home. A real permanent place that’s handed down in the family just like that name, even if you don’t live there year round. 

Riley’s on the fence. Says she’s going to think about it. He can understand her hesitation, really. It’s kind of a big deal, to decide something that’s a daily part of your life is going to change. He’s pretty sure to her that’s bigger than getting adopted. Jack’s already her dad in all the ways that count. They’re just going to get a piece of paper that says she is legally, too. But a name change…It’s not like Matty’s on a last name basis with any of them, really. But he can imagine it would take some time for her to get used to the idea of responding to people asking for “Agent Dalton.” 

Mac’s case is a little different. He hasn’t said it in so many words, but Jack can tell what the kid’s thought process is. He’s trying to redeem the name his birth father dragged through the mud. He wants to prove being a MacGyver doesn’t mean being a monster. And Jack can respect that, as long as the kid doesn’t get so hung up on trying to not be James that he forgets to be himself. 

So it’s kind of a surprise when both of them are sitting at the kitchen table with paperwork in front of them when he comes out to make breakfast one morning. Riley’s still got her arm in a sling and a bandage on her cheek, chasing Kovacs did a number on both her and Desi, which is why they’re home early. Riley insists she’ll be fine by the wedding. Jack says if she has to wear a sling it’s not the end of the world. Mac keeps rubbing at the corners of his eyes. He’s still putting drops in, and Jack knows they bother him, but at least he’s gotten a clean bill of health that promises a full recovery. He’s clearly glad to be rid of the bandages. 

Diane comes in off the deck with a mug of coffee in her hands and one of Jack’s shirts over her t-shirt and shorts, smiling. “The kids have something to tell us,” she says, putting one arm around Jack and pulling him over to the table. 

“Actually something to show you,” Riley says, nodding to the papers on the table. Two of them are just blank white sheets with one thing on them, one in front of Riley and one in front of Mac.

Jack squints at the papers, Riley’s is closest. “Your handwriting is chicken scratch, kiddo.”

“That’s because it’s my signature. Maybe you just need glasses, old man.” He raises an eyebrow and picks up the paper she’s standing beside. It is her signature, he knows it from checking her reports. But…there’s something different about it. And then he realizes it’s a hyphenated last name. 

“I couldn’t quite make myself give up the one I normally go by…and it might be a little confusing if we were both Daltons,” She adds. “But…I really did want yours. So…if it’s okay…”

“It’s more than okay, sweetheart. It’s fabulous.” 

Riley smiles shyly. “I actually talked to Matty about it. She came to see me in medical…and I asked if she ever regretted that she couldn’t change her name when she and Ethan got married. She said it hadn’t bothered her at work, because…at work she’s always been Matty Webber. But she’d said if she had the choice she’d have done this. Kept the name she knew and the one she chose. And I know it’s not the  _ same, _ but…what she said hit home. And I knew this was what I wanted.” 

Jack pulls her into a hug and then picks up the second paper. Mac’s signature is actually neater than Riley’s. Jack bites his lip. When he first noticed, he thought it was kind of cute, since most of the men he’s worked with have much worse scrawl than the women. Then when he found out more about Mac’s past, he started to wonder if James’s demands for perfection extended into handwriting as well. 

“I…ah, I don’t have a middle name,” Mac says. “Ellen and James couldn’t decide.” Now, instead of the simple A. MacGyver with the ‘G’ looping around the whole word, there’s a ‘D’ added to the middle. “It feels a little like maybe this was just meant to be.” 

“You bet it was.” Jack smiles.  _ Everything about this kid was waiting for the right person to come along and fill the holes in his life.  _ Jack feels unbelievably lucky that he gets to  _ be _ that person. 

“I know Father’s Day isn’t for a few weeks yet, but the wedding was gonna come first…and we wanted to really surprise you,” Riley says, her whole demeanor reminding Jack of a small child hoping their homemade present delights their parents. 

“With you two? Are you kidding? Every day is Father’s Day.” Jack smiles. “You remind me constantly how lucky I am.” He pulls them both into tight hugs, and then glances at Diane. “I think there’s a good coney place on the way to where we’ll have to file the paperwork. Who’s up for breakfast in town this morning?”


	27. Gum + Scissors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was partly inspired by a conversation with CatWingsAthena where I mentioned that I'd explained Mac's haircut change for season 2 and should probably do that again for Season 4...and a Tumblr post I can't currently find about Desi cutting Mac's hair during quarantine. I couldn't resist yet another haircut story in this collection, and I hope you like it!

###  Gum + Scissors

It’s not technically gum, Mac will argue for the rest of his life whenever anyone brings it up. However, “a glutinous substance that should harden faster on a surface than gum but is equally portable” is clearly too much of a mouthful for Riley, Jack, Bozer or Desi every time they tell the story. 

Mac is more or less stuck in R&D at the moment. His eyes have healed, but Jack’s insisted his whole team stand down from field ops for the two weeks before his wedding, and there’s only eight days left. Riley just got her arm out of the sling, and they’re trying to avoid any other unforeseen mishaps that could result in very injured wedding party members.

So Mac is down in his lab, helping Jill clean up after the fire and subsequent damage to the area, and working on a couple projects he really needed to get around to finishing, one of them being a new rapid-setting polymer for attaching small electronics to other things.

Mac sets a lump of it on the desk and leans over to pick up a handful of papers that his elbow knocked to the floor, and when he straightens up the glob is gone. He glances around, wondering who took it as a prank, and then feels something hard knock against his cheek. He reaches up and grabs the end of his ponytail, pulling it around to see the lump of polymer now firmly attached and swinging from a thick chunk of hair. 

It’s hard as a rock. Mac takes a moment to delight in the fact that his plan did indeed succeed, and that he won’t have to risk trackers or bugs falling off of things because the gum got jarred loose (or have to keep stealing Riley’s hoarded supplies of it) before wondering how he’s going to get it out of his hair.

He’s glancing around his desk for the materials he needs to make a dissolving solution when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out and sees that it’s from Matty. 

**War Room, Now.**

He can’t just walk in there in front of Matty and his team with a massive chunk of sticky grey goo hanging from his ponytail. He reaches for the scissors on the desk, glancing at how much of the hair is involved in the sticky situation. 

It’s a fairly thick strand, but it’s all in one spot and hopefully the rest of his hair will cover it if he takes out the elastic. He chops off the chunk and tosses it in the trash can, pulls out the ponytail and runs his fingers through his hair to try and hide the cut section, and hurries upstairs. 

“I hate to call you all out a week before Jack’s wedding, but the situation is deteriorating rapidly and I need our best team on the…” Matty trails off when Mac turns to see how Jack’s taking the news.

“Mac! What have you done to your hair?” It’s Riley who asks the question, but from the looks on everyone else’s faces, they’re thinking it. 

_ Was there more than one clump of that stuff in there?  _ Mac doesn’t think there was. He ran his fingers through all of it. And he’d only left a little bit of the polymer on the desk. “What?”

“Uh...it kinda looks like you had a fight with a scythe,” Jack says. “Kiddo, the whole right side is all ragged. Did you catch it in some kinda machinery down there?”

“Nothing that dramatic, I got some of my rapid-set polymer stuck in a few strands and had to cut it out. I kind of figured the rest would cover it up.” Mac shrugs. 

“It might have, if you hadn’t cut out half your ponytail in one go.” Bozer grimaces. “How did you not notice how much was missing?”

“Ok, can we move on from Mac’s hair?” Matty asks. “We are on a clock here.” 

All of them force themselves back to the briefing at hand. Once they’re on the jet, Mac hurries to the bathroom, slams the door and locks it, and glances in the mirror. 

They’re right. At least a third of his hair is a good four inches shorter, and the ends are haphazard and all sorts of lengths. He didn’t think he’d done that bad a job but maybe he caught more with the scissors than he meant to. He pulls out his knife, opens up the small scissors, and spends the next forty-five minutes trying to even things out.

When he comes back out, Riley hides a giggle in her hand, Desi doesn’t bother to stifle a laugh, and Jack’s expression is a sort of parental exasperation.  _ I know. It’s awful. _

“Your hair looks like you cut it with a weedwhacker,” Desi chuckles. “You could have asked for help.”

“Can we just finish the mission?” Mac asks, slumping down in a chair and pulling his knees to his chest. He’s itchy from the stray hairs that got on his neck and down his back, and his scalp feels raw from how many times the scissors caught single strands of hair and pulled. 

Bozer glances at Mac’s hair and then the knife still clutched in his fingers. “You did  _ not _ just cut all the rest of your hair with the blade on that, did you?”

“Actually, the scissors,” Mac replies weakly. 

Bozer just blinks and sits down again. 

The mission is thankfully both easy and successful. The most serious casualty of it all is one of Riley’s favorite boots, when she snaps the heel off running after one of their bad guys. She’s complaining about it the whole time she marches him back to the waiting prisoner transport. 

“You are one to talk about my respect for fashion sense?” The man grumbles. “Your partner’s hair looks like it was eaten by a bear.” 

Mac groans.  _ Really? _ Even their target is going to comment on the unfortunate disaster? 

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Desi says when they get on the jet again. “Mac, do you mind if I cut your hair?”

“Uh…” Mac was planning on waiting for a professional. He’s had experience with Jack’s skills already, and while Bozer and Riley are both quite competent, he’s not sure how they’d manage to salvage what he’s done to this mess. Judging by the looks on their faces, this is probably way outside their comfort zone. 

“She’s good,” Jack offers. “Like...she could quit the spy thing and open a barbershop good. Trust me.” 

Jack’s recommendation is good enough for Mac. He turns to Desi. “You can’t make it worse, at least.” He’s already afraid the hack job he did is going to mean he’s going to have to get a short buzz cut. Everything is lopsided and he kept having to go shorter and shorter to try and straighten it out, so now it’s at an awkward length and it’s all sticking out like a porcupine. 

“Come on.” Desi pulls him into the bathroom, turns on the sink, and dampens her hands. She runs the water through Mac's hair until all of it is damp and laying down smoothly, or as smoothly as it can after the debacle earlier. 

“I’ll be back,” she says, and Mac sits down on the lid of the toilet to wait. When she returns, she has an actual pair of scissors. They’re the ones with the black handles and red cross from the first aid kit.

“You broke out the medical scissors?”

“This definitely constitutes an emergency situation,” Desi says. “Now hold still, I promise I’m much better at this than Jack.” She grimaces. “If he’s ever tried to cut your hair you know what I’m talking about.” 

“Yeah.” Mac sits back and tries to relax. 

He hasn’t really cut his hair since he got the ends, with the last of the black dye Murdoc had used at the beginning, chopped off. He’s trimmed ragged edges a couple times, but he’s had it fairly long since he came back, at least always long enough to cover the scars on his neck. He’d been considering cutting it shorter before Desi came back, but then he’d mentally vetoed the idea. Now she knows anyway, about the scars and the trauma that goes with them, but he still hadn’t been quite ready to part with that extra little feeling of protection. 

Desi’s hands are gentle on his hair, avoiding any pulling and tugging on his already abused scalp. She’s very much like Jack in that respect, being able to switch from dangerous fighter to gentle caretaker in moments. 

“Are you...are you going to have to cut it all off?” He asks hesitantly. 

“Not unless you feel like rocking a fauxhawk like your dad.” Desi says. She took the news about James MacGyver in stride, clearly accepting that Mac no longer considered the man family of any kind, and Jack was and always will be his real father. He’s glad she hasn’t pressed the issue. James is dead and buried and Desi hasn’t so much as mentioned him since she and Riley got back from their unsuccessful pursuit of Tiberius Kovacs. 

She’s humming under her breath, probably another of her endless Bob Seger songs, while she snips and trims and runs her fingers through the strands. Mac shivers when he hand hits the back of his neck, and she stops for a moment, then starts again, but more carefully. He pulls a paperclip out of his pocket and starts twisting it. 

“The first time I cut anyone’s hair was mine, in second grade,” She says. “Bangs were in, and I wanted some, so I took my desk scissors into the bathroom with me and tried to cut them in the mirror.” She laughs. “I took off half my hair. Mom had to take me to the barbershop in town so they could fix it. The barber was the biggest man I’d ever seen in my life. I mean, my family’s lucky to hit five-ten and he was easily six foot three. His hands felt as big as my whole head. I still remember his name was Curtis Franklin and he gave me the only pixie cut I’ve ever had.” She brushes her fingers through the longer hair she’s left on the top of Mac’s head, fluffing it out and snipping off small amounts of the ends. “He was from New Orleans, moved to Detroit to be closer to his wife’s family when her mom got cancer. He used to sing while he worked. Lots of Blues stuff. I loved it.” 

Mac smiles. “I remember my mom used to cut my hair when I was a kid. Then after...after she was gone we went to a place in town. Bozer cut my hair after I moved to L.A. It probably wasn’t the most professional job, but I started growing it out in high school so all he had to do after that was trim split ends.” He doesn’t mention the trip to the prison barber, when he couldn’t stop feeling hands tugging and pulling. He’d been hoping the buzz cut would make him less attractive, but it hadn’t really worked. “Riley’s cut it a few times, and so has Bozer. Sometimes I do it myself.” 

“Want to take a look and see if you like my work?” Desi asks, stepping back and wiping her hands on her jeans. Mac’s been avoiding letting his eyes stray to the mirror, but when he does, he’s pleasantly surprised. 

His hair’s shorter than it’s been since Jack whacked it off in that hotel bathroom, but he kind of likes it. He feels like he looks slightly more like an adult than he did with the ponytail. Maybe twenty instead of eighteen. 

It feels strange running his hands over the newly short strands, feeling the lack of weight on the back of his head and neck. He lets his fingers trail down from the edges of his hair to the rough lines on his neck. A year has faded and smoothed the scars, but they’re still noticeable, most likely always will be. 

“Thanks.” He turns around to where Desi’s wiping up the chopped off hair from the edge of the sink, and hands her the paperclip, folded into the shape of a pair of scissors.

She smiles. “Any time.” 


	28. Jack + Diane

###  Jack+Diane

Riley brushes her hands over the flared skirt of her salmon-pink dress and takes a deep breath. It’s not her wedding. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous. Besides, everything about today is going just fine. Pastor Linda even remembered her glasses for once.  _ Nothing will go wrong. Nothing will go wrong. We’re going to have one day that works out fine.  _

Downstairs, she can hear the multiple younger members of the Dalton family playing with the dogs. Mickey immediately joined the chaos, and while Carlo hung back for a while, he finally got won over by Jack’s niece Ella, who tied a big bow around his neck with some of the leftover ribbon and then started sneaking him crackers from the buffet table. 

Riley finishes brushing her hair, then begins pinning it up. She’s going for simple today, her curls loose and natural, and just pulled away from her face enough not to be too hot. Mom’s maid of honor, her childhood best friend Marcia, is standing on the other side of the mirror, putting in her earrings. Marcia is having the time of her life here on the ranch. She was raised a city girl in Seattle, but she’d always wanted to live in a classic western, riding horses and roping cattle. It’s been fun watching Jack and Grandma Dalton show her around the place. Riley has the feeling Marcia may never want to leave. 

Desi fidgets with the lacy edge of the cap sleeves on her own dress. Her bouquet, set aside on a table, matches Riley’s, a mixture of salmon and white flowers with three yellow roses in the center. She was skeptical about being invited to a wedding where she only really knew one person, but Diane insisted anyone who’s saved her children’s lives as much as Desi has deserves a place of honor here.

The third bridesmaid is cousin Emily, who flew down from Vermont to make it to the wedding. Most of Mom’s family is scattered pretty far afield, with her only living sibling, her brother David, working for a tech firm in Dubai. His family is all around the globe, and Emily’s the only one who stays in regular contact.  _ After Mom married Elwood, he drove the rest of the family away systematically. Isolated her.  _ Riley shakes off the thought of Billy asking her to move.  _ He may not have had the same intent, but I’ve seen how a family can shatter when one person takes priority over every other relationship.  _ Today isn’t the day to think of that. Today is a day to celebrate family. 

“Okay, we’re almost ready.” Sam knocks on the door. “Time to get into position.” She’s not part of the wedding party, for the very simple reason that she volunteered herself as casual security. Riley knows Sam’s shimmery knee-length blue dress is hiding at least four knives and two guns.  _ Someone’s got to keep the really dangerous kind of party crashers at bay.  _ Sam won’t be alone, Riley overheard Steve telling Danny that if he had to be a groomsman in a monkey suit, Danny could stand hiding a gun in his jacket for a few hours.  _ Those two bicker so much I know it’s an act.  _ And she’s sure every single one of the Deltas came with a few unusual accessories. 

She follows Marcia downstairs and into the living room. The groomsmen are already waiting, and when she sees Mac she gives him a small smile. He’s going to walk her in, even though he’s Jack’s best man and she’s not the maid of honor.  _ Jack didn’t promise anyone who they were going to be in his wedding, probably because he didn’t think he was ever gonna settle down and get married. _

Jack and all the groomsmen have matching yellow roses pinned to their lapels. Steve is fiddling with his, trying to make it stand up a little straighter like the others. She can hear him muttering under his breath, ‘this is harder than getting bars straight on a uniform, I swear’. 

Bozer and Emily are the first to leave, walking out of the house and across the yard when Sam gives them a nod. Steve lines up next, with Marcia tucking her hand through his arm and leaning heavily on him while walking carefully down the house steps, even though all their shoes have low heels. Riley chuckles. 

She and Mac are next, and she squeezes his arm as they step out. He’s actually wearing a tie, which is kind of surprising her. He’s been back and forth on that lately, and last she knew, Jack had said he didn’t need one, but apparently he changed his mind.

The barn looks amazing. Diane claims that’s all Jack’s to take credit for, that he was the final authority on color schemes and decoration. Riley thinks that sounds very accurate.  _ No one would figure Jack for the one with the flair for interior design, but he has an eye for colors.  _ As much as Riley used to tease him about the state of his apartment, it actually  _ worked. _ A little quirky, sure, but...that’s Jack. She didn’t think anyone could make old theater seating and movie posters look classy, but Jack somehow managed. And together he and Diane have turned the ranch barn into a wedding venue that’s worthy of a photography spread. 

Against the weathered wood, the salmon and tan color scheme blends just enough to look fitting, and the gold shades of a few accents remind Riley of the desert past the fences. She takes her place in the group of bridesmaids, watching Jack walk his mother in and seat her in front, then take his place.

Riley smiles when the wedding march begins playing and Diane walks down the aisle, accompanied by Matty. She’d asked Matty to be the one to give away her hand, since both her parents are dead and there’s really no one else she considers to be the one to fill that role.  _ I think she’s grateful to Matty for finally letting her have the truth. And, in a way, for bringing her and Jack together. If she hadn’t assigned Jack as my handler, they never would have met. _

Mom looks radiant. Her smile seems like it could light up the whole barn. She almost seems like she’s floating down the aisle, her dress has no train because of the barn wedding and is instead about an inch above the floor. 

Jack is clearly making a valiant effort not to cry. He’s sniffling and crinkling his nose, and his eyes are shiny. Riley makes eye contact with Mac, and he gives her a small smile. And then Matty places Diane’s hand in Jack’s, and everyone turns to Pastor Linda, whose red hair is glowing in a fluffy halo around her head as she lifts her paper from the makeshift pulpit and adjusts her glasses. 

* * *

WEDDING RECEPTION

THEY STILL HAVEN’T HAD ANY PROBLEMATIC UNINVITED GUESTS

UNLESS THE LOOSE CALF COUNTS

Mac dusts his hands off on his dress pants and examines the gate latch. “That ought to hold him this time.”  _ Only at Jack Dalton’s wedding would the toasts be interrupted by a three month old steer busting loose. _ Fortunately, there were plenty of experienced wranglers in the crowd, and Mac fixed the gate latch with the pin from his boutineer. The rose became a victim of a curious calf tongue. 

He didn’t need his tie, but it’s off anyway, tucked in his pocket. He made it through the ceremony, but he was starting to feel claustrophobic by the time they left. They’d gone outside to take pictures, and by the time they came back the barn had been totally transformed from a wedding venue to a reception hall, the chairs rearranged around trestle tables Jack borrowed from the local VFW hall. Up front there’s space for dances after the meal. 

But before they get to that part, he’s got to make his best man speech. Which he was kind of grateful to the calf for saving him from at least for a few more minutes. He’d had one ready, but just this morning he realized he didn’t really like it. He isn’t sure there’s any way that he can sum up what Jack means to him and what this family means to him. At least not without revealing about ten classified missions. 

Marcia had a nice speech about how she’s known Diane her whole life and wanted her to find someone who would treat her like the amazing woman she is, and how happy she is that that finally happened. Her experience has been...normal. Mac’s has been anything but. 

But then he looks around the room and he sees the Deltas’s faces, and he knows exactly what he has to say.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in this room who’s had a pretty fair share of bad days.” There are plenty of nods. “And I’m sure you consider yourself lucky if you have a friend who’s there for you no matter what.” More nods. “Well, I consider myself really lucky, because I’ve got Jack Dalton.” He smiles. “A lot of you know what it’s like to be friends with Jack. And those of you who don’t...well, after tonight you probably will because Jack makes it his mission to take care of anyone and everyone he cares about, and all of you are here because you’re part of his life, or Mom’s, and now you’re part of both. So...I guess, what I’m trying to say is, if you’re one of the people in this room who just welcomed Jack into your family, get ready, because he’s definitely going to welcome you into his.” 

He sits down again, the clapping sounding a little hazy, and takes a drink of water.  _ Got that out of the way, and didn’t pass out. Good. _

“Kid, that might have been the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.” Jack grins. “Alright, folks, let’s get this party started!”

Once everyone’s eaten and the dogs have been coralled twice, Jack stands up and takes Diane’s hand, leading her toward the dance floor. 

Mac grins at Riley and picks up the mic, letting his mind find the rhythm in the music as the first notes start. He’s glad Riley’s good at leading, he guesses years of practice singing karaoke with Jack have paid off.

“Little ditty, bout Jack and Diane...”

Diane begins laughing as Jack spins her in a circle, clearly not caring about any steps, just having fun and moving to the beat of the music. The two of them look ridiculously happy whirling around the dance floor under the glow of the light strings draped in the rafters. Mac wants to capture this moment forever.  _ At least every time I hear this song now, I’ll see this.  _ It’s better than a photograph.

He can faintly hear Jack singing along to ‘his’ parts, and when they get to Diane’s moment, she smiles, then pulls him in for a kiss as the song goes on. 

Mac swallows back a choked feeling in his throat.  _ Don’t cry now. _

“Little ditty, ‘bout Jack and Diane, two American kids doin’ the best that they can…”

* * *

THIS IS EASILY THE HAPPIEST DAY OF JACK’S LIFE

When Mac and Riley’s voices fade out, Jack smiles down at Diane. She’s glowing, her cheeks a little flushed from their dance, her eyes sparkling. 

“So...was it over the top for our first dance to be a karaoke version of “Jack and Diane” with the kids singing it?” Jack asks. 

“Is it cheesy? Absolutely. Is it one hundred percent a memorable Jack Dalton move? It sure is.” Diane smiles and leans her head against his shoulder. “It was perfect.” 

When the next song starts, Jack keeps holding onto Diane’s hand as Riley steps out onto the floor. This might be the oddest daddy-daughter dance ever. _I’m the one getting married._ And Riley’s not the only one he’s dancing with. Mac follows her, grinning, and the four of them stand there a little bit awkwardly, before Jack pulls both his kids into a hug, letting them rest their heads on his shoulders, while Diane leans against him, resting her arm around them. None of them move, just listening to the music. And Jack wouldn’t have it any other way. The Dalton family is finally together. Finally home. 

“When you need me call my name

'Cause without you my life just wouldn't be the same

If you want me come sunny skies or rain

When you need me just call my name

If you miss me, I'll be there

To brush the sunlight from your hair

I'll be there to guide you when trouble walks beside you

If you need me I'll be there

And when this dirty world has been cold to you

I got two strong arms waitin' to hold you

And when those mean days come along

We'll stand together and we'll take 'em on

So if you need me just call my name.” 

  
  



	29. Desi+Riley

###  Desi + Riley

**Post 3.22 History+Cable+Choices**

Riley shifts on the plane seat, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. She won’t admit how much it hurt hitting even the piles of shredded paper in that dumpster.  _ Jack would joke that I’m getting old like him. _

What hurts more than the bruises and pulled muscles is the knowledge that they’re hitting one dead end after another. It’s like Kovacs wiped every trace of his existence after he attacked Phoenix. Even Riley can’t find him, and that scares her more than she’ll admit. The last person who was able to drop off her radar this thoroughly was Murdoc. 

_ He’s in a cell now, where he’ll never be able to hurt Mac again. _ Then again, that’s what they thought about James.

She sighs, leaning her head back on the seat and closing her eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. Her neck and back feel stiff and achy after that fall. There’s nothing seriously wrong, she can already tell. Just some aggravated muscles and that one bone that has a tendency to slide out of alignment. And it’s not like she can just call her usual chiropractor and schedule an appointment when she’s about four thousand miles away and technically not even supposed to be in communication with anyone outside this task force. Calling her family is something everyone else on the team has tacitly chosen to pretend doesn’t happen. 

She glances sideways at Desi, who’s in the seat beside her with a small notebook in her hand and a pen tapping against the pages. “You weren’t supposed to tell on me. You’re supposed to be the cool aunt.”

“I am, unless you start making a habit of doing swan dives out of third story windows.” Desi doesn’t even seem taken aback at Riley referring to her as a legitimate family member. “Jack will kill me if you don’t come home in one piece.” 

“Stop pretending the only reason you care is because of Jack,” Riley says, cuffing her shoulder. “You don’t have to be the ice queen around us, you know. Not even Patty lasted long on that front.” 

“Fine. Despite all logic, I like you insane people. Are you happy now?” Desi asks, a grin slipping across her face. 

“Yeah.” Riley says, shrugging a little and wincing when that makes everything from her skull to her tailbone tense. 

“Guess I shouldn’t have been surprised Jack collected a little family,” Desi says, the pen tapping faster against the paper. “He wasn’t much for the whole distance thing.” 

“He tried to convince you to stay out of undercovers, didn’t he.” 

Riley’s known for a while. Jack looks at Desi sometimes with the same kind of regretful sadness he has when he’s reminded of Mac’s desperate search for James, that went so horribly wrong.  _ He tried to convince both of them that all that was going to bring was pain. _

Desi nods. “It was the first time I really got angry with him. I thought he was treating me like I wasn’t capable. Like I was too young, or that because I was a woman I shouldn’t. We...parted on less than good terms, to be honest. But...after I realized what he was really trying to protect me from...we started talking again.” She sighs. “He already knew what burying yourself to do a job can do to you. And he was just trying to keep me from learning the hard way.” 

Riley nods. “I thought he didn’t like me at first. He was so sharp with me every time I made a mistake. And then I made a big one, and I realized he was so upset because he knew a mistake in the field could cost me my life, and he didn’t want to watch me die.” She takes a deep breath. “I think part of the reason he and Matty were at odds for so long was that he blamed her for putting a kid my age in the field. I was fresh out of high school and running dangerous ops. And I think he saw himself, joining the army instead of going to college, and he didn’t want me to become him.”

“Fathers always want their children to do better,” Desi says. “Mine worked twelve-hour days so we could afford stable housing in a community with good schools. He was so proud of me he used to hang my report cards up in the noodle shop.” She grins. “I think he might have been more excited about my framed diploma than I was.” 

“Sounds like he was a pretty good dad,” Riley says. It still hurts a little to hear people talk about having a good childhood. 

“He is.” Desi says. “Someday I’m gonna drag you all up to Michigan so you can meet my family. Jack has, but...I’d like you all to.” She shrugs. “I mean, if Patty can’t salvage Phoenix I might have to go back there and start working full time for my parents again anyway.”

Riley nods, looking down at her hands in her lap. They all agreed not to tell Mac that Phoenix is in limbo, basically. The CIA wants to absorb them, like they did after Walsh and the Chrysalis disaster. If they do, they’ll fire and blacklist anyone remotely connected to the Kovacs disaster. 

It’s hard to imagine having a ‘normal’ life. Riley’s never known anything but covert ops.  _ I left high school and this has been my world ever since. _ She imagines Desi feels about the same way. She got a second chance once, but she won’t be offered that again, especially not from the same agency that kicked her out before. 

She’s not even sure what she’d do. If she’s blacklisted it’ll immediately block her from working with computers unless she gets some minimum wage computer repair technician type gig. She stifles a giggle at the thought of going into an actual interior design career with Jack.  _ We could make it a family business. _ With Jack's eye for color, Mac’s creative thinking, and Riley’s ability to custom-code her own modeling software…

She’s surprised to find that the thought doesn’t immediately bore her. A life that doesn’t involve getting chased, shot at, or jumping out of windows on a regular basis has its appeal.  _ We’d still have the enemies we made, but thanks to our team, a lot of them are now memories.  _ The Ghost, Murdoc, even James can’t touch them. And if she and Desi and this team could just get Kovacs, that would be the worst of the people they’ve faced. 

“You think that’s the way it’s going to go?” She asks.

“The CIA has no lost love for Phoenix after the NOC list debacle,” Desi says. “They’re going to want to take us off the board. But...Thornton drives a hard bargain. I don’t see her giving up without a hell of a fight.” 

Riley nods. The thing is, she’s not sure what the cost of a victory will be.

Patty would sooner die than throw any of them to the wolves. Riley knows that for a fact. After Bishop, after she had no choice but to send Mac into hell itself (and Riley chokes on the thought that she was in the same position, she still tries to bury everything about that mission in a dark hole in the back of her mind), Patty won’t let her agents be hurt just to try and salvage the agency.

_ If they try to blame anyone, it will be Mac. _ After all, it was his father that masterminded the whole plan for Kovacs to break in. Never mind that the man is currently six feet under (his funeral, or what passes for one, was today). If someone gets turned into a scapegoat to save the agency, Riley knows the CIA will come for Mac. And if the choice is between Mac and the agency, Patty will protect Mac. No matter the cost. 

It’s why they haven’t told him any of this. He’s smart, he’ll come to the same conclusions. And he doesn’t need to think about that. Mac blames himself for enough. If the Phoenix goes under, they can never tell him why.

Riley turns back to Desi. “What’s that you’re writing?”

“Designing my next ink,” Desi says. “I know, the drawing’s crap, but tattoo artists can make something pretty awesome even from my lack of artistic talent.” It’s a ship on a tossing sea, the kind of small boat Riley’s seen on documentaries about Vietnamese refugees. Desi’s right, her art skills are...less than impressive, but Riley can imagine the finished design. 

“My family is strong. They can endure any change that comes, and their stories always reminded me that as long as family have each other, they can weather any storm.”

Riley nods.  _ That’s true. No matter what, as long as we stick together, we’ll be okay. _

She touches the flower on the back of her neck almost without thinking, then glances at Desi. “Hey, we’ve still got about eight hours of flight time. Could you help me design something for me?” She’s got an idea.

“Absolutely,” Desi says, turning slightly in her seat. “Just tell me what and where.”

“Flowers, here.” Riley pats her hand on her upper left arm. 

Desi reaches into her bag for a tiny little tin of very short colored pencils. “We’re gonna need these because I can only draw three flowers. Roses, daisies, and the generic five petaled kids’ art kind.”

Riley chuckles. “Okay, well...here’s what I’m thinking…” 


	30. Siblings+Ink

###  Siblings+Ink

**Post 4.01 Fire+Ashes+Legacy=Phoenix**

Mac’s spent a lot of time in a lot of waiting room chairs, but Jack’s cousin Cody’s tattoo shop is unlike anything he’s ever been in.

The chairs are a mismatched cluster of what Mac guesses were thrift store finds. All of them have upholstered backs and seats, with spray-stenciled designs on the fabric. Each chair is different, and after some deliberation, Jack’s chosen the one with a stylized wolf’s head on the back, Riley sat down in the one with fish swimming in a circle on the back and seat, and Mac decided on the one that has two tigers, one stalking its way up the back, the other curled up ‘asleep’ on the seat. Desi’s perched on the edge of a chair covered in floral designs, flipping through the idea books on the side table. 

He and Riley both came with moral support; their tattoos will be done at the same time, Mac’s by Cody, who has more experience with scar work, and Riley’s by Cody’s partner Angelina. She’s already come out to greet them and take down their names and information, and the sleeveless tank she’s wearing showed the wings tattooed on her shoulders and upper arms, patterned like a dragonfly’s wings and shaded in iridescent-looking purples, blues, and greens. Mac can see her through the door of one of the booths, cleaning the chair before she takes Riley back. Riley’s got her sketch laid out on her lap, waiting for it to be scanned into the computer and then turned into a transfer-ink sheet. 

He's seen Riley wistfully eyeing Desi's full sleeve, and while he can't quite picture her with an arm full of tattoos, he thinks the design she and Desi came up with is perfect. Flowers that represent every member of her family and her team, with the option to add more as either grows.

In the center is a sunflower; Riley’s favorite and the flower she chose to represent herself. Mac thinks that was a perfect choice.  _ Always turning toward the light. Keeping her face to the sun. _ Even when things are bad, Riley doesn’t succumb to the dark. 

He actually laughed when she told him she was picking a thistle for him.  _ I’m not  _ that _ Scottish.  _ But when Riley explained what she meant by it, he understood. Thistles are strong and resilient, according to Jack you can dig them out of the pasture one summer and they’re back the next spring as big as ever. And they’re meant to be handled with care, because if you don’t touch them with respect, you’re going to know about it.  _ I guess we’re...getting there on that part. _

She picked everyone else’s flowers with just as much care. A peony for Diane, the stem intertwined with a Texas Hinckley Columbine for Jack. Monkshood for Matty and flowering hawthorn for Patty. A cheerful yellow poppy is for Bozer, the unpronounceable Australian waratah is Cage, and Desi is an orchid. There’s even an iris for Leanna. 

“She’s family, no matter where she goes,” Riley had said. Mac agrees. He hopes Leanna comes back someday, but even if she doesn’t, he’ll always be grateful for the time when she was one of them. 

It's very  _ Riley _ , a mixture of bold edges and rich colors that will stand out against her skin tone, accented by the barbed wire strand in sharp lines and plain grey tangled through the whole thing. Mac's seen a lot of barbed wire tattoos in prison and this is the first one he really thinks utilized the potential properly. On its own, the wire just looks harsh and menacing. Woven into a formerly soft design, it acts almost like thorns. Pointing out that beauty and danger don't need to be separated. So...perfect for Riley.

She and Desi had apparently gone back and forth on using a briar stem or the wire, but Riley settled on the wire since it reminded her of the ranch home in Texas.

As it stands, it's a big piece, and Mac sort of thinks she committed because he's got to get a large one done too. She doesn’t want him to be sitting in here alone. 

They'd agreed to wait until after Jack and Diane's wedding, so Riley didn't have a healing tattoo in an off the shoulders dress.

Mac has a feeling that went a long way toward convincing Diane that Riley wasn't just being rebellious again. The fact that he's getting a large one too, for a very good reason, might have helped too. Just because Riley isn't covering up a cruel scar on her skin doesn't mean this isn't her way of healing past trauma too.

Mac bites his lip at the thought of the irony that what he’s about to do  _ is  _ on some level rebellious. Jack notices and turns to him. “What’s on your mind, kiddo? Nervous?”

Mac shrugs, it’s not the kind of nervous Riley is (she’s asked Desi three times already if that’s a painful spot to get a large tattoo, and Mac thinks it’s both humorous and ironic that he’s seen her get shot, stabbed, and literally tortured, but she’s still not super enthused about the pain of getting a tattoo). No, he’s just feeling...weird. 

“James always said tattoos were ugly. Told me he better never see me with one.” Mac says. “I guess that stuck with me more than I wish it had. And then prison...there were a lotta guys with ink that I had nothing but bad memories of.” He shakes his head. “But I want this. I really want it.”

“And screw anyone who makes you feel like you shouldn’t,” Desi says. “Do you know how many sleazy guys I’ve run into who say they’d like me a whole lot better if I wasn’t inked up? I always get a kick outta telling them I don’t do it for attention or so people find me attractive. I do it for me.” She glances at him. “Mine mean something to me and yours mean something to you. That’s what’s important. Anyone shallow enough to judge you for some permanent ink on your skin doesn’t deserve to be part of your life anyway.”

“Well, at least he doesn’t have to see it now,” Mac chuckles humorlessly. 

“No, he can’t. He can’t see you or touch you or hurt you anymore.” Jack’s voice is something between a baseless threat and a relieved happiness. “He’s gone. And you’re still here. The only reason I would wish that man this side of the sod ever again would be so I could make it very clear to him what I think of everything he did. With my fist.”

Mac nods.  _ James spent years systematically breaking me down, making me feel worthless and never good enough. _ Mac had started to believe the lies, to think James was right, that he was too fragile, too weak, that if he couldn’t handle a little criticism and correction he’d never be able to face the real world. It’s taken years for that to even begin to unravel the stranglehold it had on his heart and mind. Now James is finally gone for good and it’s time to rebuild. Mac doesn’t even know what that looks like. But it starts with taking back the pieces of his life that got taken away. By James and by everyone else. 

He glances around the room at his family.  _ They remind me that I am worth caring about, worth loving. _

Cody walks out from his booth with a young woman who’s got a bandage on her lower arm just as Angelina comes back. “It’ll be just a minute for me to clean up everything, okay, Mac?” He says. 

Mac nods. 

"This is gorgeous work," Cody says, glancing over Desi's arms and chest with an artist's eye. "That script on the collarbones is very clean. Hard to do with lettering and a location like that."

Desi nods appreciatively. "Had a good guy back home in Detroit. But since it looks like I'm more or less a permanent west coast resident for the time being, I know where to look up a good artist." She stands up with Riley when Angelina beckons them into the office.

She’s done making the design transfer by the time Cody finishes cleaning his booth, and Riley proudly shows off the bluish lines on her arm when she walks back past Mac and Jack to step into Angelina’s workspace. 

Mac follows Cody into the office, feeling Jack’s presence behind him. It’s crowded inside, but Mac feels safe with Jack there, not threatened. 

"Haven't changed your mind about the Phoenix design?" Cody asks. Mac shakes his head.

"Okay, then I'll get a transfer ready." He sits down at the computer and pulls up a rendering of the sketch Mac had left for him. The lines have been cleaned up and it looks like he’s added some detail to the tail feathers. The next minute, he pulls up an identical replica of Mac’s original sketch, just with cleaner lines. “I ended up making two options,” He says. “You can pick which one you like better.” Mac studies both of them. In his sketch, the tail feathers are simple, like an eagle’s, because he was focused on the wings, using them to cover up the ‘M’. Cody’s drawing keeps the part of the tail that will cover the bottom ‘v’ of the letter, but then sweeps in the direction that would put it toward the outside of Mac’s chest, and the longer feathers almost resemble a peacock’s fan. Mac smiles when he sees that instead of the ‘eye’ in the feathers, there’s a tiny oblong swirl. A paperclip. 

“I like yours,” he says with a grin. 

“After Jack got that one...well, I wanted to see if I could work the design in for you too.” Cody smiles.

“It’s perfect.” It’ll be a little bigger, but Mac thinks it’s actually better that way.  _ It doesn’t just cover up the damage, it has a little bit of me, just me, in there too.  _

Cody sends the design to the printer and then pulls out the transfer paper. He glances at Mac, then the paper. “We’ll do your transfer in the back.” Mac nods. Unlike Riley, who could wear a tank top and not need to remove any clothes for her tattoo, Mac’s going to need to take off his shirt. 

Mac insists on paying Cody, even though Cody tries to argue that cover-ups like this are supposed to be free. 

“That’s more than I’d charge for anything other than a full back piece,” Cody says, trying to push Mac’s hand away when he holds out the money.

“I want to,” Mac says. “So you can help someone else who can’t afford it.” Finally, Cody agrees to take the money, still shaking his head.  _ It has to cost him to do the free work. Might as well make it a little easier, I can afford to, at least.  _

Cody and Jack carry on a steady flow of conversation while Cody prepares and applies the transfer and then readies his materials. It’s lighthearted banter about their childhood antics, and Mac finds himself laughing more than once at stories of what Jack was like as a reckless teenager. 

“I’m going to be as gentle as I possibly can, and if at any point you feel uncomfortable for any reason, all you have to do is tap a finger on the chair arm and I’ll stop right then,” Cody says. 

“I...uh...I tap my fingers a lot, actually,” Mac admits. He doesn’t want to be stimming and have Cody misinterpret it. “Is it alright if I just tell you if something’s not okay?”

“Of course.” Cody smiles. “Sometimes people aren’t okay speaking or they just...can’t, when something drags them back into their pasts. So I worked out a signal that would help if they couldn’t tell me they were going to need me to stop.”

Mac nods. It’s a lot like the ways he and Jack have found to let Mac tell Jack he’s not doing well without needing to ever say it. “It’s great, I just...tapping is something I do when I sit still for a long time.”

“And if you need to get up for a little and move around, that’s ok too,” Cody says. “You won’t be the first.” He holds up the ink colors in little tubs. “These look right?”

Mac nods. “Perfect.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to do the outline first. That’s actually usually a little more painful because the needles for that are in a tight cluster. They’re spread out for shading, most people say that doesn’t hurt as much.” 

_ I probably can’t tell him that I’m sure it doesn’t hurt as much as getting shot. _

Cody’s gentle, and his gloved hands don’t make Mac feel like he’s going to have a flashback. There’s something familiar about this gentleness, maybe a shared Dalton family trait. 

The prick of the needle is strange, but not exactly painful. Mac can barely feel it at all where it crosses over the scar. After a few minutes, the repetitive buzzing fades into background noise and he can feel himself relaxing.

“You know, I’ve had people go to sleep on me in the chair,” Cody says with a smile. “Not Jack, though. He won’t admit it but I know how his jaw clenches when he’s tryin’ not to yell.” 

Jack shakes his head. “It’s a whole lot better than grabbin’ the electric fence.”

“Whatever you say.”

Mac listens to the playful arguments and before he realizes it, Cody’s smearing a thin layer of some sort of greenish gel over the tattoo and laying a plasticky-covered bandage on it. He tapes the bandage down lightly. “Now, keep that on there for a coupl;e hours, then you can take it off and clean the tattoo gently. You’ve still got aloe from the last one, right?” Mac nods, Cody had given him a small bottle of plain aloe, since using lotions with scents or chemicals in them while a tattoo is healing isn’t a good idea. “If you run out, get more or something else with no colors or scents,” Cody says. “Angelina prefers oatmeal eczema lotion, but I don’t personally like the feel of it on my skin.” He shrugs. “To each their own. Keep it clean, and you already know not to worry if the top layer of skin peels with ink in it.” Mac nods again. 

Cody smiles and opens the door once Mac’s pulled his shirt back on, letting him and Jack out into the waiting room. 

Riley and Desi are already outside, chatting with Angelina and apparently discussing Desi’s shoulder tattoo that needs a touch up after Murdoc’s remote rifle shot her. Riley proudly displays the large bandage on her upper arm. "It looks fantastic," she says. "I mean, I still have to come back for touch up and details once this heals, but..."

"Same." Both their designs required more than one appointment. Cody said large and detailed just goes that way. Mac’s fine with it. He already can tell that the scar has been neatly filled in over, and the wing detailing, darker shades that pick out the flame colored feathers, is going to obscure it almost completely. 

“I’d like to get a picture of you both for the scrapbook,” Cody says. “If that’s okay.” He glances from Mac to Riley. “I usually photograph my tattoos when they’re finished if the client’s okay with that, but sometimes I like to get a picture of who they are, too.” 

“Of course,” Riley says. 

“Okay, come over to the wall.” Cody pulls out his phone as Mac and Riley step up in front of a wall that’s been spray-painted with a huge logo reading “Cody’s Ink”. Both of them grin, and Mac hears the click of the picture being taken. 

“This is going on a page just for Jack’s kids,” Cody says, turning the phone around to show them. Mac’s surprised how big his smile looks.  _ I didn’t think I could smile that wide. _

"We might be booking three for next time, Cody," Jack says when they rejoin him and Desi. "Desi's almost got me convinced I need Bruce Willis's face tattooed on my thigh."

"Dad, stop..." Riley groans.

"Just kidding. But  _ she  _ was flipping through your sketchbook the whole time we were waiting," Jack says. 

“Well, I’m going to schedule the two of you back in four weeks for the next layer, okay?” Cody says. “If that doesn’t work for some reason, we’re flexible.” He chuckles. “Jack was supposed to come back and get the detailing done on his Delta tattoo and didn’t get back here for a whole year.”

“It was eight months, dude,” Jack insists.

“Point is, I know your lives can get...a little crazy.” Mac nods, there’s no way Cody hasn’t seen the bullet grazes and scars on all four of them. “So we’ll do it whenever you’re ready.”

“Sounds good,” Jack says. “See you around, man.” The two exchange a tight hug, and then Mac, Riley, Jack and Desi walk out to the car. 

Riley chooses to hang out at the house rather than go back to her temporary apartment. Mac knows the place isn’t homey, Riley hasn’t bothered to unpack much of her stuff, since she’s planning on moving again at some point. 

When they decide that it’s probably time to take the bandages off, Mac helps Riley with hers since the back of the tape is in a hard to reach spot on her shoulder. She tilts her head sideways and glances down at the ink with a smile. 

“It looks even better than I thought it would.” 

Riley’s flowers are filled in but not shaded, but already the effect is impressive. Mac doesn’t think she’s stopped smiling yet. She and Desi picked shades that complimented her skin tone while remaining true to the actual color of the flower.  _ Apparently Jack’s not the only one in the family with an eye for color.  _

“It looks awesome,” Mac says. 

“Are you okay if I see yours?” Riley asks. Mac nods, and starts to unbutton the top of his shirt, feeling the tug of healing skin and the bandage tape. 

Riley’s fingers are gentle, helping pull the tape away. When she gasps softly, Mac remembers she didn’t see the final version, with the paperclip tail. “That’s stunning. Mac,  _ wow _ .” She looks up at him. “It’s perfect.”

Mac thinks so too.  _ The Phoenix might have been a nickname the press gave me as a vigilante. But...it’s been eerily fitting ever since.  _ He’s thought about that a lot, recently. Watching everything change around him even as the really important things stay the same.  _ There’s a lot of darkness in the past. But all of it is ashes behind me now. And I’m free to rise. _


	31. Patty + Cabin

###  Patty + Cabin

_ Jack was right. _

Okay, the first week on a fishing trip with her dad was amazing. As Dad put it, ‘just us and the salmon, like a dream come true’. Sure, they still took a different trail to the lake every day, and the cabin has one of the most sophisticated alarm systems in the world, but...it felt peaceful.

The problem is, Patty and ‘peaceful’ have never lasted too long in the same place. 

She fills a mug of coffee from the metal pot on the cookstove and steps outside. After so many years spent in California, the cooler, damp bite of Oregon mornings is unfamiliar. She tugs her (well, Mom’s) old moth-eaten sweater around her shoulders and leans on the porch railing, looking down the hill to the lake where the rowboat is knocking softly against the dock. 

“You know, legend has it salmon go back to the same place they were born every year.” Dad’s sitting in the rocking chair at the far end of the porch, his bad knee propped up on a battered, three-legged stool.

“I bet Mac would know whether that was true.” Patty takes a sip of her coffee. “I swear he knows everything there is to know about...well, everything.”

“Sounds like a very smart kid. You were lucky to get him.”  _ More than you know _ . They’ve been lucky so many times over when it comes to Mac. Which is why it’s so hard to walk away from him now.  _ I can’t help but feel like something bad will happen to him again. _

“How do you do it? How do you let them go?”

She’s accepted the fact that even with all her clearances, she’ll never know all of what her father really did. She knows that he was involved with DXS, before her time, but she’s also seen all the redacted ink. Peter Thornton was the type of agency legend no one ever knew existed. Sort of like her.  _ My whole life, and all my accomplishments can be boiled down to a file full of black lines. _ She’s not sure she regrets it, but it does leave her feeling at loose ends now that she’s no longer a part of that world. 

“I don’t.” Pete stands up with a faint groan and walks over to her, placing one hand on her shoulder. She suddenly feels ten again, and very much like she might cry. “I let the job go. But not the people. Never the people.”

He hands her one of the fishing poles leaning against the wall, the old cane one that was his and his father’s before that. “Let’s go down to the lake.”

She follows him down the worn trail, their boots scuffing through the first layer of falling leaves. It’s not quite ready to be autumn yet, but a few trees have changed color, bright spots in the sea of greens. 

Neither of them bait their hooks or even drop a line in the water. They just sit there, holding the poles, for what feels like forever, listening to the tiny waves slap the dock pilings. 

She’s avoided talking to Dad about any of her team. Today was the first time she mentioned one of them by name.  _ I thought not talking about them might make it easier.  _ It’s always been the way she’s dealt with loss. Unspoken words hovering around holes in her world, wounds that scar over in time but never truly fade. She thought she learned how to manage that a long time ago. But apparently retirement is a whole lot different than burying a co-worker. 

There’s a finality to death. Even if you live with regrets, with the thought that you could have done more, that person can’t be brought back. But somewhere out there, Jack and Riley, Mac and Bozer, Desi and Cage and Matty, they’re all still breathing. And fighting. And maybe bleeding. And she doesn’t know. 

The thought steals her breath and makes her fingers lose their grip on the pole. She’s helpless to protect them. If there’s one thing Patty hates, it’s feeling like the world has spun out of her control. She felt like that when Walsh approved the Bishop op. And she feels like that now.

Regardless of the fact that she was the head of the agency, that she wasn’t supposed to get attached to anyone, she cared about that team like they were her family. Jack and Matty were the closest thing to siblings she’s ever had. Mac and Riley and Bozer were like kids. Desi and Cage...well, she’s not sure how they fit in, but the point is they fit. All part of the little family she made for herself. And now, because of what they do, she can never be part of it again the way she was. 

The loss hits in a wave. She doesn’t cry, just sits there watching the water and letting herself admit that this hurts. That walking away might have been the right choice, but that doesn’t make it an easy one. 

She couldn’t save the Phoenix without a sacrifice. She’s been a thorn in the side of the greater intelligence community for years, because like her father she’s dedicated to protecting her people above all else. Placing her resignation on the table made for a hell of a bargaining chip.

Every secret she’s acquired, every skeleton she’s found in a dusty closet over the years, all of that went into pulling the Phoenix back out of the hands of the people who wanted to take it away. She has no more cards left to play, no more strings left to pull. And that’s when a good agent knows to quit the game.  _ If something happens again, I can’t save them. But Matty and Cage still have their own secrets, their own pressure points to hit.  _

An agent without secrets in their pocket is in a precarious position. Dad taught her that a long time ago. She couldn’t in good conscience put her people at risk just because she wanted to stay. But it still hurts. A lot. More than she wants to admit to anyone but the man sitting next to her, in silence, waiting for her to want to talk. 

“I did what I thought would keep them safe,” She finally admits quietly. “But the only way I’ve ever known how to protect people is by being with them. It’s hard to get used to the idea that letting them go keeps them safer this time.”

Dad nods. “It’s what any good parent has to learn to do.” He rests a hand over hers. “I can’t tell you it gets easier to watch the people you love living their lives without you. I can’t tell you you don’t wonder when that one phone call you dread is going to happen. But I can tell you that the fact that you care means you walked away at the right time.” 

She nods. 

_ The only thing worse than having to quit because I’ve lost the edge I had to bargain with would have been stepping down because I’d lost my humanity. _ Every agent walks that fine line. And in a choice between her secrets and her soul, she knows which one she’d rather lose.

“Do you want to hear some stories about them?” There aren’t  _ many _ that aren’t classified high enough to give someone a nosebleed, but there are a  _ few. _

“Absolutely.” Pete reaches into the fishing basket and pulls out the bait box, offering it to Patty. She shakes her head and reaches into a pocket. There are paperclips and gum wrappers and toothpicks and a matchbook from an Italian restaurant in there. She folds a gum wrapper into an accordion and pushes it onto the hook.  _ I don’t know if I’ll ever stop thinking I need to have all this stuff around, just in case Mac needs it. _ She was never in the field with him as much as the others, but it still became second nature, especially after she watched him disarm an old Russian nuke with Riley’s peanut-butter-cup foil.  _ He swears this trick works, and Jack will back him up. If I catch a fish with it I’ll send them a picture. _ Technically there’s no cell signal up here, but Riley may or may not have enhanced all their personal phones to connect to sat feeds. 

She tries to think of a story that doesn’t involve too much danger to her team members and that she can share without violating the espionage act.  _ Technically I can tell Jack’s Die Hard story because it wasn’t an official op. _ “Dalton thinks I want to murder him, but the only time he actually made me angry enough to consider it was the first Christmas after we started working together. He was on his way back from a retrieval op in a high rise and stopped in at a Christmas party on the thirty-second floor…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, both times I've written Pete, he's come across as ambiguously possibly more a guardian angel than actual human being so I guess it's up to you how you interpret him ;)


	32. Pop Quiz + Potential

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the idea that gave me so much trouble last week. I REALLY wanted to fix this part of S4, but it was interfering with how I planned out the whole chapter, and I had to cut it from there. Thankfully, I have deleted scenes, so I don't have to cut it completely! With a few rewrites, and without further ado, here's what I WANTED from the opening 'day jobs' idea...

###  Pop Quiz + Potential

**Post 4.02 - Water+(C3H3NaO2)n+Shovel+Mac**

Mac grabs the stair railing and throws himself over the side of it, taking the steps two at a time to his third-floor classroom. He’s got ten minutes to spare, but he needs to get the fidgets out before class starts. At least the ones that make him more or less literally feel like climbing the walls. 

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, which means it’s a member of his team. They’re the only ones who get through the blocking he turns on before classes.

It’s Riley. 

**I was returning a desktop tower to Dr. Adams in the math and sciences department and I watched you parkour** **_up a set of stairs_ ** **on the way to class. You aren’t even late; I checked the clock.**

He chuckles.

**Gotta get the energy out somehow. Otherwise I’ll be more fidgety than my students.**

They’ve been undercover for a solid two weeks here at NYU, trying to ferret out Jonas Henshaw. Former British intelligence turned college professor who also moonlights as a master thief. Henshaw apparently specialized in retrieving high-value items for British intelligence. He’s now contracting to the highest bidder, who as of two weeks ago, was Roman Geddings. Henshaw stole the Tiger Shark missile for his foiled L.A. attack with the Hades, and he’s the best lead they have on where Roman is now. 

Henshaw uses his classes and conferences as his covers to steal and move his goods, and in order to get the information from him, the team’s gone undercover to surround him at his day job. Riley’s job in the tech services department gives her unlimited access to the campus mainframe (and an endless supply of neon grape polo shirts), Jack’s campus security specialist gig handed him the keys to the kingdom (quite literally), Bozer’s running surveillance via a whole classroom of eager film students’ documentary projects about ‘days in the life’, and Desi’s gotten a job as a bouncer at the club where Henshaw’s girlfriend is a dancer. 

Mac is the closest to Henshaw himself, working as an adjunct professor of chemistry. When Riley’s digital search and Jack’s physical one turned up nothing actionable, Matty informed them that now, this mission rests on Mac’s ability to get into Henshaw’s inner circle. But it’s a little hard to do when Mac spends every waking moment grading papers and planning lessons. 

Spending a whole hour in one room is confining, even though he’s able to walk back and forth behind his desk and do experiments. He always feels ready to jump out of his skin by the third class of the day, and he teaches six.  _ Problem with being an adjunct. You get all the lower level ones just dumped on you so the actual professors can focus on their specific disciplines.  _

He tries to be as accommodating to his students as he can, not calling out the ones who tap their pencils, or their feet, and he makes it clear at the beginning of his classes that if you have to get up and leave he doesn’t need an excuse, and that it’s okay to bring in food (as long as it’s not really messy, he got in trouble with the janitor for a tomato soup spill two days ago).  _ If it sucks for me to be in here, it’s got to suck for them too, being stuck in chairs. _

He has a rule about not having phones out for purposes other than taking notes or using them for accessibility issues, but the truth is he hasn’t noticed too many distracted kids in the audience. He mentioned that to Jack when they got lunch together in the cafeteria one day, and Jack said it’s probably because he actually makes science gibberish fun. Riley, who was also eating with them, had a slightly different opinion. 

_ “They’re probably glued to you because they think you’re cute,” _ she’d teased, poking his arm with her fork.  _ Sisters. _

He thinks she probably was right, now that he thinks about it he’s seen some whispering up there whenever he rolls up his sleeves to do something messy.  _ At least the only side effect of that is a whole lot of requests for special tutoring sessions. _ And occasionally getting his personal space crowded a little when assignments are being dropped off at his desk. That weirds him out a little, but he can take it. There’s nothing blatantly creepy happening, which he’ll settle for.

He takes a minute outside the door to the classroom to straighten his jacket and make sure all the papers he needs are in his satchel. He’s got a graded assignment to hand back, and it’s only thanks to Riley that all the student grades got input into the computerized student portal last night, Mac did  _ something  _ wrong and crashed his own login page. 

_ This student portal is worse to manage than some encrypted terrorist networks. _ Even Riley is in agreement that the software on the instructor side is buggy. The student side has had several update patches just since she’s been here, but they have yet to fix the problem that doesn’t let professors see the assignments they put in the calendar after they press the submit button. 

He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to forget the frustrating computer system and focus on what’s happening today. This lesson should be fun, he’s going over the basics of exothermic reactions.  _ Or, in other words, today I get to make things go kaboom. _

He thinks Jack  _ was _ in some respects right. Mac keeps these kids’ attention because he boils down the weirder sounding things to stuff they’ll remember. In fact, he’s seen his own little comments scribbled in the margins of quizzes, apparently they’ve really helped these kids remember basic chemistry terms and reactions. 

_ Sometimes it’s easy to forget why I’m really here. _ He’s made very little progress with Henshaw. The man is reclusive, choosing to eat in his office and taciturn whenever Mac’s met him in the halls or offices.  _ I wonder if he’s the sort that ignores a lowly adjunct because I’m not on his level. _ Still, not being able to find an inroad with the man isn’t as frustrating as it would be on another mission. Because Mac’s having a pretty good time biding his time. 

He walks in and sets the stack of graded quizzes on the corner of his desk. “Okay, I need everyone to come up here and take two things. Your quiz, and…” he pulls a bag out of his satchel.  _ Thank goodness sales for Halloween candy start about two months in advance. _ “One of these packets of Pop Rocks.” 

There’s chuckles from the audience, and one guy asks, “What are we, first graders?”

“Well, if you don’t want candy, that’s up to you, but this is your  _ pop _ quiz. Worth ten percent of your grade for participation, remember?” 

Mac can barely keep from grinning.  _ Oh Jack is gonna be so bummed he missed this one. _ Mac’s been wanting to use this pun for a week.

He waits until everyone sits back down with their papers and candy, aside from one kid who’s allergic to the dyes (which reminds him of Riley) and one who’s got to be careful about sugar. Them, he hands a little cup with some water in the bottom from the sink and tells them to dump their candy packet in there.

“Okay, go ahead.” Mac hears the packets ripping open and several kids giggling as they dump the candy in their mouths. “I’ll be honest, I have an ulterior motive here, I’m hoping that wakes you all up.” More giggles.  _ Teaching an 8:00 am class means you’ve got to get creative sometimes.  _

“Alright, everyone’s passed their pop quiz,” Mac says with a chuckle, pulling out a sheet of paper and checking off names. “Now, it’s time to find out why this counted as your quiz.” He looks up. “Okay, who can tell me why Pop Rocks pop?”

There are several guesses, ranging from the ridiculous to the plausible. Finally, one girl in the back raises her hand. “The candy is filled with compressed carbon dioxide while the sugar is still liquified. When it hardens, it traps the pressurized gas inside, until you melt the sugar coating.” 

Mac nods. “That’s exactly right. So basically what you’re doing is releasing the potential. The catalyst for the reaction is the saliva in your mouth, which breaks down the sugars and allows the bubbles to pop.” Mac says. “Lots of exothermic reactions are just like that. Everything by itself is inert. But you add something like potassium to a dish of water…” Mac drops the tiny chip of alkali metal into the dish and grins when the boom makes pretty much everyone in the room jump and sit up straighter, “things start to happen.”

He has the students’ undivided attention the rest of the hour. When he dismisses them (and fields a few slightly intrusive requests for office hours, which he can thankfully say he doesn’t actually have an office and be honest about) he packs up his satchel again. His next class is two floors down, a lab section. 

He stops to pin the new assignment schedule to his section of the classroom bulletin board, right next to the bright orange flyer that has the campus security number on it and in bold type, ‘If you don’t feel safe, don’t hesitate to call us’. He’s done his best to make sure every student in here has that number in their phone. Right below that flyer is the one for a sexual assault survivors’ helpline and campus support group. They’re in all the dorms too, but Mac tries to make sure, as much as he can, that people know about the options they have. 

He doesn’t know if he’s doing anyone any good. But the most he can do is try. 

He almost literally bumps into Riley in the hall on his way to the next class. “You have coding club tonight?” Since she’s no longer trying frantically to find any shred of Henshaw’s side job on his campus networked devices, she’s taking advantage of her nine-to-five hours to volunteer with a local juvenile center. Spending evenings teaching kids in the foster system and fresh out of juvie a skill that might help them get a good job and a better life. Paying it forward, in a way. Just like he’s trying to.

“Nope, that’s Wednesdays and weekends.”

“Okay, then, my house for pizza this evening?” Mac’s got the brownstone, and the lecture from Sam that went with it about not destroying the nicest New York safehouse they have. It’s much better for team get-togethers than the others’ shoebox apartments.  _ I had to be the one potentially impressing people.  _ “Jack’s got the night off, and so does Desi. And Bozer’s always coming over.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Riley waves as she takes off down the hall, a computer monitor in her hands and the cords slung over her shoulder, tangling in the burgundy ends of her ponytail.

Mac pushes open the door to his next class, still grinning. As long as he’s got his little family to look forward to seeing, today doesn’t seem so bad at all. 


	33. Saddle + Grit

### Saddle+Grit

Jack pokes his head out of the haymow at the sound of a truck and trailer rattling down the road. Pops and Tom Reagan went to the stock auction yesterday, and they’re on their way home with five new horses for the ranch string. Jack’s always excited to see the new mounts, but today, that approaching cloud of dust sends an ever bigger thrill through him. 

Jack gets to pick his very own horse, to break and train and ride, out of this new string. He’s fourteen now, and Pops says he’s proven himself responsible with the horses they’ve got, and it’s high time he has one that’s all his own. 

Jack’s been riding since he could walk, and he’s taken care of the horses he’s ridden as long as that. Pops used to lift him up onto his shoulders so he could reach old Smokie’s mane with the comb. He grins at the memory, his first real one that isn’t something he thinks he remembers because the family talks about it at every dinner. 

He opens the gate for the trailer and watches as the horses are let out to trot into the small corral. They’ll stay in there, able to see and graze alongside the main herd, until the hands can be reasonably sure no fights will break out, then they’ll be added to the main pasture.

A chestnut paint, a buckskin, a black with a blaze that looks like spilled milk, and a grulla trot out. Then there’s a bang, and a tall, thin bay with a small star leaps down the ramp, cantering to the far end of the corral like he’s going to try and jump the six-rail fence. He skids to a stop, head up, eyes rolling. 

Jack knows that horse is the worst pick of the lot. High strung and feisty, probably prone to fighting a rider. But the thin white lines and across the shoulders and the two pale patches on the chest muscles tell Jack it’s not the horse’s fault. Whip cuts and sores from a saddle chest strap improperly used. Jack figures this horse belonged to someone who wanted a flashy ride and didn’t know the first thing about how to manage one. There’s pale lines on the muzzle, too, and when the tangled mane flies up as the horse whinnies and tosses his head, Jack sees them behind the ears. 

Jack knows Pops has a soft spot for animals whose owners messed them up. It makes him an oddity around the area, the small moments of impracticality that have led to the acquisition of a blind cattle dog, a three-legged tomcat, and a mare too lame to ever be ridden again. But Pops isn’t the kind of man who demands every living creature in his world earn its keep. 

But Jack takes one look at that horse and knows that if riding anything can prove he’s got what it takes to bust broncs, it will be this wild-eyed gelding. 

“The bay.” 

Tom Reagan adjusts his faded ‘Detroit Tigers’ ballcap and frowns. “You sure about that?”

Mr. Reagan isn’t a native Texan, he was born and raised in Michigan. He met Pops in Vietnam, and the two of them stayed in touch after the war. Mr. Reagan had married a French battlefield nurse he’d met during the way, but she’d caught tuberculosis from a patient and only two years after they were married, she died.

Looking for a fresh start, away from the memories, Mr. Reagan had asked Pops if he needed someone on the ranch who was good with cattle and horses. Pops had hired him in a minute, and Jack’s gotten used to the guy with the funny accent and the orange and blue hat. The other guys give him grief for not just switching to Dallas Cowboys or something, but Mr. Reagan says there’s a few things about Michigan he’s gonna hang onto. 

Tom Reagan’s the designated ‘bronc-buster’. Everyone was surprised that out of every hand on the ranch, he was the only one who could sit a fighting bronco to a standstill after Huey Gonzales busted up his leg and had to quit. 

That’s the job Jack wants someday. He knows he can do it, he understands the tricks. And to prove it, he’s picked the fiercest-looking horse in the string. 

“That bay fought me every step into the trailer,” Mr. Reagan says. “Your pop got him for a song, practically. Just gonna let him go to pasture. He outbid the slaughter man on that horse, he was pretty determined not to let him be dog meat, but that doesn’t mean he wanted you tryin’ to ride him.” 

Jack shakes his head. “I can do it.”

“Best let the kid try, Tom,” Pops says. “I trust Jack to know when he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Till he taps out, he can try with that one.” 

Jack smiles. Pops knows that Jack’s not dumb. He just likes a challenge. 

“Well, let him settle in for the night, as we can get to work tomorrow,” Mr. Reagan says.

Jack can hardly wait. He goes out to the corral after dinner, with a handful of carrots Momma says he better make last. The black and the paint come up to the fence right away, and Jack gives them both a carrot. After a little while, seeing that the others seem calm, the buckskin and grulla wander up, and Jack snaps another carrot in half to split for them. But the bay stays on the far edges of the corral, away from the other horses and away from Jack. Eventually, he admits defeat in that attempt and heads off to finish his evening chores. 

* * *

NEXT MORNING

JACK’S GONNA FEEL THIS TOMORROW

Jack’s eaten dirt for the fourth time in less than half an hour. His left shoulder hurts like hell where he fell on it the third time around, and if Momma heard some of the words he’s been muttering under his breath, she’d wash his mouth out with soap. 

Mr. Reagan watches from the fence as Jack pushes himself back to his feet. He’s been giving pointers about Jack’s seat and his grip, but Jack gets the feeling he’s amusing the older cowboy quite a bit. There’s something he doesn’t have yet, and it looks like he’s meant to learn that lesson the hard way.

He tires out before the horse does. Bruised and aching, he scrambles up on the fence beside Mr. Reagan, grimacing when he realizes half the ranch hands and Pops have been watching too. 

_Watching me make a fool outta myself because I’m too proud to admit the horse is too much for me._

There’s work to be done, and they turn the gelding back into the holding corral while Jack helps unload hay and ear-tag calves. But that evening, he’s back in the saddle...or more accurately back in the dirt. He drags himself to the house that night feeling like one giant bruise. Momma clicks her tongue when she rubs liniment over his purple and blue shoulders. 

“You are gonna break your back, Jackie.”

“I gotta learn how to do this sometime.” It’s not the first time he’s been thrown. He’s fallen off, been bucked off, kicked, even had his leg stepped on once. He doesn’t know any rancher who hasn’t taken a beating from their horse at one time or another. But that doesn’t mean giving up.

It also doesn’t mean this is the same. He gets what Momma means. The other times, things happened, horses got spooked or he got careless. This time, he’s practically doing it on purpose. But he doesn’t want to quit. Not just yet.

* * *

JACK ALMOST DIDN’T GET OUT OF BED

Jack drags himself to the corral before sunrise. Mr. Reagan’s got the horse tacked up, a blindfold over its eyes. This time, they don’t have an audience, the hands are still asleep and Pops is working on the damn baling tractor that hasn’t worked since last July. He tinkers in the mornings, before there’s things he can’t get away from.

Jack goes to climb on, and the horse steps sideways. Jack stumbles and almost falls. Normally he wouldn’t even break his stride, but moving _hurts._ Still...he can’t quit. He just can’t.

Mr. Reagan catches him by the shoulder. “Hold on a second, kid. Wanna tell you something.”

Jack turns around to look the older man in the eyes. Mr. Reagan rests a hand on the gelding’s neck.

“The secret, kid, isn’t breakin’ their spirit. It’s tellin’ that horse that you’ve got the same kinda spunk and he’s gonna like you.” Mr. Reagan smiles. “You don’t want a horse that’s scared of you. You want a horse that respects and trusts you. You’re not here to be that horse’s boss. You’re here to be his partner.” 

Jack nods. He’s been going about this all wrong. He didn’t want to scare the horse, but damn if he didn’t want it to just _listen to him_. He was trying too hard to be in charge. When what he needs is to be gentle. To prove he’s not like the people who hurt that beautiful, spirited animal, who scared and damaged it. 

He climbs onto the horse’s back again, leaning down over the neck and running his hands over the horse’s coat. The skin shivers like a fly landed on it, but then the horse settles, snorting and raising and lowering its head against the halter tie. Mr. Reagan undoes the halter from the tether post and then reaches for the blindfold. 

“Ready when you are, kid.”

Jack nods. “Ready.”

It’s the same wild ride as before. Jack still hits the ground. But something feels different. This time, instead of walking away, shouting or cursing under his breath, he walks to the horse, taking its head gently and slipping the blindfold back on. 

There’s something in that horse’s eyes he can’t ignore. That’s not anger. It’s fear. And Jack doesn’t like seeing anything look that scared of someone. 

“I’m sorry, boy. Shhh. It’s alright. I won’t hurt you. This is gonna be different now.” 

He wonders why Mr. Reagan didn’t tell him sooner. Didn’t warn him or remind him this horse wasn’t mean, just scared, before his teenage bravado got him in so much trouble.

_Would you have listened to him when you were on that fence, feelin’ your own oats and wanting to be a big man? Wanting to show them all you’re a tough guy?_

_Probably not._

This is the opposite of everything Jack was trying to be. But there’s a warmth that settles in his chest when he realizes it’s exactly what any good man here is. Pops has always tried to teach him that it’s kindness that counts more than anything else. It just took some real experience for Jack to learn it.

He looks up and sees his dad’s face in the window of the barn, a slow proud smile spreading across his features. _It doesn’t matter if I ride this horse today or not. I proved I’m a man to him when I learned this lesson._ This is why Pops didn’t fight him on his choice of horse. He knew Jack had to find this out for himself. 

He keeps talking while he leads the horse back to the post, ties it up again, and gets on. Once again Mr. Reagan lets it loose, and this time, somehow, Jack stays in the saddle till the horse stops kicking and jumping. He leans down over its neck again, patting the sweat-dampened shoulder.

“That’s not so bad, is it, huh?” 

The bay snorts and swings sideways and Jack hits the ground.

He gets tricked once more before he manages to actually stay on and keep the gelding from dumping him with little shifts or starts. Jack squeezes his knees against the horse’s sides gently, and the bay pricks his ears, lifts his head, and begins to amble around the corral. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Mr. Reagan says. “You really did it, kid.” 

“Yes I did, Mr. Reagan.” Jack can’t keep the pride out of his voice. 

“Aw, go ahead and call me Tom, Jack.”


End file.
